


Yea though I walk

by eggshelled



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A world where terrible things happen to good people, Character Development, Doing bad things for the sake of good, Downward Spiral, F/M, Female Inquisitor POV, Gen, Not Trespasser Compliant, Regret, Slow Build, Solas POV, Solas is Fen'Harel, Suspicious Female Inquisitor is Suspicious, accidental reveal, and bad people too, fake identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:19:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggshelled/pseuds/eggshelled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is not a hero or a savior, and the only god she believes exists is not the Maker. </p><p>Trevelyan tries to understand the world that has become her responsibility and finds herself, and those within it, lacking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first edited 9/24

Cloaked and hunting the most dangerous game in the world, kneeling with wet moss soaking into her leathers at the knees and the constant buzz of night insects around her did not bring back the feeling of wandering the wilderness with her uncle. Above her, three archers crouch in waiting. She waits for the signal.

One of the apostates puts down his skin of wine and clamors up on unsteady feet, grinning with a flushed face at his companions. "You, serah, have had entirely too much to drink." The only woman hiccups from across their tiny little fire. He waves her off with a laugh and a rude gesture before ambling into the bushes further off.

She feels the air become displaced when one of the archers moves to follow him. She breathes out quietly through her nose. The quiet man, sitting only yards before her, is the primary target; he is an entropy mage. Dabbling in forbidden magics. He would have to die. The others could be taken alive. Alive for what though, beyond the degradation of a tranquil mage. A hollow facade of a person paraded before all the other mages as a warning.

Evelyn would rather die than be a shell of a person. But that isn't her decision. It isn't theirs, either. It is her Knight-Captain's choice.  A warning for all mages. A cautionary tale. It is the Chantry's decision to support and encourage it. It was Andraste's decision, so said the history books. The Chantry called upon Andraste, the Maker, Tevinter and the Blights as proof that the Circle of Magi was correct; it is the Maker's work. Evelyn does not know what the Maker's work is or what he wants. She only knows that the world is dictated by people in power. And in this, the Chantry is the most powerful piece on the chessboard.

Evelyn does not believe in the Maker. She prayed alongside her brothers and sisters in arms but silently believed in something else altogether. If there was one eternal presence ever watchful over the world of mortals, it did not care for their petty grievances or hardships or triumphs, their love or greed or anger or even indeed their devotion. One way or another, death would collect all their tithes no matter who they were or where they were from.

If Evelyn were of a more poetic soul, she would have likened herself to an avatar of death or a messenger. But she is not. The Order has never had a kind hand for those softer souls.

And these runaways will pay a higher price than they will be aware of until the axe falls. The leader of their squad, the second archer perched above her left shoulder, croaks like a distant animal and she hears the soft whoosh of an arrow flying. The young man in the bushes drops face first in the very place he relieved himself.

The rustling bushes catches the entropy mage's attention and his head swivels to look in the direction intently. The woman guffaws. "Fell down did 'e?"

Evelyn shoots a glance up to where she knows the squad leader is. They were supposed to take them alive.

Another arrow flies before she can signal him and catches the woman mage in the throat. She gags and gasps, falling to her side. Blood spurts from her wound into the fire, causing it to hiss and flicker. The entropy mage is on his feet and cursing them with an accent Evelyn places as Rivaini. Energy swirls at his fingers and she feels the push-pull of his magic calling to her center and urging her body to relax. With a flare, she sends out a holy smite that startles him but it is not enough to completely stop his casting or make him lose his balance.

Evelyn remains in the shadows when arrows fly off the barrier he'd conjured around himself, he pulls on the terror and rage and grief around him, swirling like a whirlpool as he collects it and flings it in the form of a cloud at the archers in the trees. Two of the younger ones fall and Evelyn hears bones break, like dry twigs snapping in the rain. Their squad leader snarls, but hangs on and fires an arrow of holy fire at him.

The barrier flickers but remains.

Evelyn slips behind him, daggers drawn and sharp, glinting behind the mage like teeth in the firelight. He won't feel it, not like her squad leader would make him, because she understands playing a role you had no choice in, even if they are far from similar. It is the only comfort she can grant him. Like him, she is bound to her role. Another arrow of holy fire surges at his barrier and it dies the same moment he calls upon ice to cage her squad leader who dances out of its range easily.

The moment the barrier is down, Evelyn lunges from the dark and one dagger worms its way between his ribs to his heart while the other buries itself at the base of his skull. He never saw her coming. A hitch in his breath is the signal of his end before his body twitches and his legs fail him. Her daggers leave him, a smooth slide like a butcher's cut, and a trail of dark blood catches on the slight wind.

Her squad leader lands beside her. “George broke his arm. Cynthia is fine.” He looks down at the mage, places a boot beneath his hip and rolls him to his back. “Good knife work. Could’ve done with a bit more sport, though.”

Evelyn ignores the way her stomach rolls when he says that.

She manages to ask: “And the other mages?” Tries not to sound rebellious or dubious of his decisions. Fails, obviously, from the way he looks at her.

A heavy hand weighs her shoulder down like an anchor. He turns her to face him and his grim face fills her vision. He is older and stronger than her. He’s also crueler. “Filthy blood mages, the lot of them. Good thing we got here when we did. Saw them dancing naked under the moonlight, chanting a heathen language and offering up their blood to demonic consorts. Filthy creatures.”

Evelyn’s mouth draws in tight, lips straining against her teeth. So that is the way it will be. He leans closer, forehead nearly touching her own sweat-marked one. “Understand, Trevelyan?”

She swallows. _No. I don’t_. “Ser.”

He nods once. “Check their belongings. Bring back that damn book the Senior Enchanter was bitching about. Our contact is waiting at the inn for us.” Calls over his shoulder to where Cynthia and George are, “Oi you two. Bind up George’s arm right well. We’ve got more to hunt down by morning.”

The mage’s eyes, glazed and blank, stare past Evelyn’s face but that does nothing to assuage her guilt. Everyone dies. Rarely do people have control over how. Death regardless of faith sought everyone and everything - nothing was too small or powerful or good or young to escape its omnipotent gaze. Evelyn had grown up knowing that when it was her turn she would not die of old age or in her bed. Her hands are too bloody for that. Death may be fair, not caring who or what someone is, but that does not mean that the people who cause it are just.

The mage is just another face she will see when she goes to sleep at night.

 

 

She did not enjoy killing, the savaging of another living person or animal had never appealed to her, but this; the hunt, the chase, she loved. The fighting. The battle. Never the loss of life, but she held a deep rooted affection for battle and the tempestuous, whirlwind of motion like chess pieces come to life.

The ones she hunts now are not mages, but nonetheless dangerous men of ill repute who the Chantry had deemed a danger to the faithful flock. And so the hounds were sent to kill them. Men garbed in tight leathers with sharp gauntlets and raised pauldrons, betraying their line of work. Lyrium smugglers. Evelyn had since changed from her squad of armored scouts to join the ranks of the hunters. She was markedly different from them. She didn't slaver at the jaws at the thought of being the predator, enjoy killing the mages they pursued or relentlessly antagonize the Dalish they came across. As such, she was deemed an outsider of her own making. There were some things about her role she couldn't cloak herself in. It would feel like wearing lambskin gone too tight.

The smugglers, and slavers, she notes, have a mage chained and bound, gagged and blindfolded. He's an elf. And he sits on his knees, unnaturally still and upright though she can see his body move softly with each breath. She turns to her hunter-brother and makes a downward slash, tilted to at an angle in a question. Slave. What now?

In a short move, he flicks his thumb against the knuckle of his first finger. Take him to the Circle.

Evelyn nods once and moves in first. Hunters don't have the typical command structure of the other templar units. They are each equal in all but name since while they may roam in small packs, they were trained to be solitary and independent. They are not each a scale to a dragon. They are, in essence, war dogs used in hunts. Here, they have no leashes or collars but the blue bottles given to them at their drop locations. They are each an island. Together, but alone.

It is not lonely because it is all they know.

Evelyn flings bottled lightning on herself. It buzzes in her ears like a symphony of cicadas and tastes metallic on the back of her throat like sucking on a copper. It sends a sudden jolt to her heart, causing it to hammer and her entire body feels as if it is imbued with an unholy amount of energy. The world slows and colors become muted, distorted before her. Evelyn moves behind one of the smugglers and slits his throat open. It gapes like the smile of a toothless babe. She moves, bypassing a bodyguard who had nocked an arrow at her to deliver a fast strike to his temple.

She moves too quickly for him to crumple immediately like he should.

The other hunters are barely visible now, just coming out of cover to ambush the smugglers. She makes her way to the mage and slices the blindfold off – oh.

His eyes are gone, dug out, and what are left are two pits that stink of blood and infection. He’s handsome, despite the cruelty done to his face. He has an angular look to him that’s almost vulpine.

She breaks the ropes from him quickly and feels her heart thud dangerously beneath the cage of her ribs like a prisoner against cell bars. Time and she meet again, and the world breathes. Colors match, there is no sense of strangled urgency.

Behind her, she hears her brothers fighting but her gaze is on the blinded mage.

“’ave ye come to finish me off then?” His thick accent gives him away and she flinches. Dalish. Nothing good ever comes with the templars sticking their noses in Dalish business.

“No,” she croaks apologetically. “My name is Hunter Trevelyan. We’ve come to kill those holding you captive.”

He’s quiet and she watches with a kind of fascination as his ears cock and twitch slightly at the noises of battle all around them. “Templars then? You’ve come to take me to the Circle?”

She cannot discern his feelings on the matter, spoken evenly and without his eyes to gauge his reaction. “Yes.”

“My clan won’t have me back. Not like this.” With a wavering hand, rubbed raw and bloodied by unkind rope knots, he gestures to his face. “No choice left, but your Circle.” He pauses and smiles – and it is a hollow bitter thing. “May my gods be kind in delivering me to yours.”

Without thinking, Evelyn corrects him. “I don’t think you’d want to be delivered to the god I believe in.”

“No?” He looks inquisitive, or perhaps confused judging from the set of his brows and the way his mouth turns.

“No.” My god only wants one thing and it isn’t your faith. She turns when the last battle cry dies down and sees Maxillian staring at her, blood spattered across his chest. “We’ve a mage to escort to the Circle. He’s Dalish but says his clan won’t take him back.” She explains.

Maxillian comes closer. “Why’s that? Insulted one of their gods?” He asks, not in a mocking tone but a humored one that the Dalish would turn one of their own away so easily. Maxillian has been a templar longer than she has, but has less experience in dealing with those outside of the Free Marches. He doesn’t know what the Dalish do when they have too many mages.

Evelyn turns so she is beside the mage and Maxillian can see him. She hears the other templar inhale quickly. “Bastards.” He curses, kicking at the gutted body of a slaver.

“Take him back, Ev. We’ve assignments to finish.” Adrien calls from across the little glade. He’s crouched over one of the dead men, rifling through his pockets.

She looks back at the mage still on his knees. “Have you at any point in time attempted to use or learn blood magic?”

The force she puts behind her words is hollow. The only ill use of blood magic she has ever seen had been a cornered mage crying for his mother before he turned into an abomination. She had seen it put to good use before, healing spells and protection. She has never seen it as any other magic, which may be due to her scant encounters with it, but she does not see it as a solely evil thing. However blood magic needs no lyrium or mana to remain a threat, which is a threat to the Order and therefore the Chantry.

She thinks the elf notices how half-hearted she sounds, or feels. “No.” And he gives her a crooked smile.

“Then we best be on our way.” She tosses a scavenged lyrium potion from one of the smuggler’s crates and only as it’s in the air remembers her mistake. The elf’s ears twitch and he manages to catch it with the tips of his fingers. Evelyn’s eyebrows bounce up in surprise. “Heal yourself up. Ostwick is where you’re destined for.” A pause, listening to him gulp down the potion before she cautiously asks, “Were you a Keeper or…?”

“I was the First. Our Keeper will take on a new First.” He seems to give her a considering gaze, even without the eyes to complete it. “Not a lot of shemlen know anything about our people.” It sounds approving. “At any rate, our Keeper would have retired me from being his First. And being that I still have magic…” he trails off expectantly, cracking his knuckles as if to replace his sudden silence.

“You would have been given supplies and exiled.” She finishes.

“We don’t use the word exiled. But it’s the same thing.” He seems to look into the forest. “I suspect we’ve a long way ahead?”

Evelyn takes his cue and with an almost hesitant hand, takes the mage by the crook of his elbow and leads him into the forest.

 

 

The tranquil barely makes a sound when the templar behind him starts thrusting.

Evelyn is already moving towards them – beasts like this make the Order worse than it has to be. Bad enough they are jailers and war hounds that know only to obey their Chantry kennel masters, but must they be rapists, feeding on the terror of those around them, preying on the helpless they took oaths to protect? Their oaths weren’t just to guard the people from wayward mages or demons – they were meant to protect mages from those who feared them, those who wished them harm. It is depressing to see how few templars obey that side to their oath.

A small hidden knife slips out from a fold of her cloak and she flings it at the wall over the templar’s head. He twitches and falls from behind the tranquil, fingers groping for the sword he’d thrown to the side in haste when he’d found the tranquil by himself. The tranquil straightens and his robes fall to hide him but the curve to his posture belies his hurt.

In a rare moment, Evelyn feels the numbed acceptance of her life crack and burn beneath her chest, embers being stoked back to life with dragon’s breath. She feels as if she is burning from the inside out. She grips the tranquil’s sleeve and maneuvers him behind her, shuffling him out of the archives. She faces the templar, who is tucking himself away and cursing her name, cursing the tranquil. The dragon’s fire feels hotter when she spies the slickness on his gauntlets.

“His name is Tamlier. Not tranquil.”

The templar looks up at her voice. “Fuck off Trevelyan. If more of you women put out then we wouldn’t need to go hunting at the bottom of the barrel for a lay.” He spreads his fingers to a table covered in papers. “You want the big bad knights of the Circle to stop fucking the ickle mages? Spread ‘em, love.”

She feels as if she is standing on the precipice of something in her. She is a sea serpent in the lake and all too aware of what she can do.

She thinks the templar’s name is Gordon but she isn’t certain. What she certain of is that way he shouts when she grabs ahold of his groin and squeezes and twists. The plates there are thinner and more flexible and as a result, less able to take punishment. A hunter’s gauntlets are scaled to allow movement but are far thicker. He feels it.

He tries to backhand her but she is faster than him, moving beneath an armpit and toppling him to his side she follows him down and keeps a hold of her prize. She twists again and hears him beg and yell, writhing. She thinks of the consequences that will be heaped upon her and compares them to what will happen to this man should she let him go and do nothing. Gritting her teeth she decides it will be worth her pain later. Even if the Order will forgive and forget his actions, she won’t.

She sinks the points of her clawed fingers in.

He screams.

 

 

The world burns. It’s ending. And it is all their fault.

Templars with leashes got too high handed, expecting the mages they jailed to whimper at the sight of a raised hand forever, expecting that things could always continue in such a way. It isn’t just the mages the templars are furious with – it is the Chantry. Chantry lies, telling them their duty was holy and sacred, to discourage bonds of family, of children, of marriage and life outside the Order to serve the Maker and His will – but then placing the blame of the mages’ conditions solely on them. A dog will only ever do as it’s told. And if it is not corrected, its behavior will grow feral.

As theirs had.

Evelyn does not join the hunt for mages or the burning of the small Chantries they come across.

She tries to stay out of the fight as much as possible.

‘Try’ is the operative word. She is very much involved but not in the way she perhaps is expected to be.

Tirelessly, she herds Tamlier, Lysandir, Rachel, Nana, Jutten, Justin and several children across battlefields. The tranquils who had been caught in the fights, the crippled and old and the children left in the smoke that neither the templars or mages cared to protect.

She trusts Lysandir and Rachel the most at her back – even with Lysandir being completely blind he is a powerful mage and knows how to brandish his power wisely. Rachel is an older woman but still fit for battle and duty although she abhors fighting passionately. She was the children’s caretaker for years and had stayed by them when everything went to shit. She is damn good at healing though. Tamlier mostly minds the children and forages. Nana and Justin are too old but to linger back and protect the others with barriers made strong through experience. Jutten is what the templars had referred to as a “swayback Tranquil”. He is old and tranquil. It is not the best combination.

Rachel refuses outright to cross into the templar territory. She stands in front of the children protectively. “No. You can sneak off, fling a flask of lightning and suddenly you’re gone. Lysandir and I may fade step but the others would be wide open if we got ambushed.” She gives Evelyn a pained look. “We can’t.”

Justin speaks up gruffly. “You imagine the cursed forest is any bloody better, who knows what’s in there? More templars? Crazed mages? Fucking trolls?”

Rachel opens her mouth before Lysandir, possibly sensing her growing distress moves to her side and presses an open palm on her hip. “It might be better. Might not be.” He cocks his head. “Whatever decision we make, we make now. The fighting is getting closer.”  

“Please, Evelyn.” Rachel says again, clasping Lysandir’s hand in hers.

It’s strange to hear someone say her first name so casually. But she thinks of them as friends. Privately she agrees with Rachel; if they are ambushed there is only so much one hunter can do against half a dozen soldiers. She isn’t fit for combat the way they are.

“I vote the forest,” she says. Justin makes a disgusted noise and Nana frowns disapprovingly. “A soldier is hardier than I am” –

“You say that because you’re not a damned mage. You don’t really want to risk your neck for us.” Justin snarls and smoke rises from the tips of his fingers.

Rachel gasps. “Justin!”

“I’m just saying what everyone is thinking – a templar, here to protect us? Haven’t any of you noticed where she’s been herding us?” He turns on Evelyn. “You want me to tell them? Or would you like the honor?”

Lysandir’s brow crinkles. He’s thinking of the steps they took to get here. Stowaways on a ship, trekking through the beginnings of forest when there are other roads to take –

She speaks before he can connect the dots. “The Brecilian Forest.”

Lysandir utters an elvish oath and shakes his head when Rachel asks him a question. “ _There_? Ev? Are you serious?”

“The Dalish here…are not the same as your clan, Lysandir. I’ve met them briefly in the past. They treated us fairly, so long as we didn’t bring them harm or make a nuisance of ourselves.” Evelyn starts but Lysandir points a gauntleted finger at her, the hood over his head obscuring the upper portion of his face.

“You know damn well that isn’t my concern. That forest is _no good_ , Evelyn.”

The weight of carrying them all and knowing that when the war does end she will be executed as a traitor to the Order and the Chantry for her role in aiding them breaks her patience.

“I’ve run out of places, Lysandir - there is nowhere else because there is war everywhere!” Her voice echoes louder than she meant and it carries into the trees. She shifts in place like an unruly horse. “There is nowhere else.” She says again softly.

Justin scowls at her dangerously and Nana shakes her head muttering “No, no, no, no, no.”

Rachel lifts her chin and gives her a grateful nod which Evelyn returns even as she feels the energy drain from her. Lysandir seems to be considering her. “Fair enough. And we’ve got children. If we can manage to stay out of their way…” He sighs and Rachel bumps her shoulder into his. He turns in her direction and she lifts a hand to stroke his bottom lip gently. Evelyn looks away. It is entirely too intimate for her eyes.

“Nowhere else?” He asks finally.

“No.” Evelyn confirms. It isn’t that she doubts the Brecilian Forest is dangerous – she’s heard the stories of werewolves and the undead, the darkspawn and all the things that go bump in the night – but the war would have skirted the forest. There is a small amount of comfort in that at least. He nods – they all eventually nod and the children gather around Tamlier and Jutten and Nana.

The forest looms before them, huge and dark and terrible.

Evelyn strides forth and doesn’t look back.

 

 

“ _They said a woman was behind you in the rift…no one knows who she was._ ”

The world is still ending, except now the blame seems to fall solely on her shoulders.

There is a hole in the sky from which demons fall through, people are screaming and crying and fighting and through it all the mages and templars are still at war with each other while the Chantry falls apart. Peace has never felt further.

The Divine is dead.

Evelyn is not religious by any means but the loss of her political figure when she’d meant the Conclave to be an end to the war is a staggering loss. It was the only reason she’d followed Maxillian to the Conclave. He went to protect the Chantry representatives and the Divine. He had contacted her when his family had requested he protect the faithful so they might put the war to rest.

Her own family had sent only one missive in regards to her sighting in Ferelden.

‘In light of your actions in the war, House Trevelyan will not be granting you sanctuary.’ In her grandmother’s penmanship, signed by her parents and eldest brother and sister. She expected nothing less and only wondered how they knew about the mages she had protected. But House Trevelyan is large with eyes everywhere.

She and Maxillian guarded them, watched templars look at them as if they were traitors, watched mages look at them as if they were feral dogs that needed to be put down.

Then the explosion.

The mark on her hand that crackled in time with the sky.

The deaths of everyone who might have ended the war.

Cassandra has little patience for her questions and deems them as indication that Evelyn is trying to buy herself time.

Evelyn moves in position behind a shade and sinks her daggers into its back. Its moan of pain is cut off and it is swallowed by some part of the rift.

“Just over this ridge! You can hear the fighting.” Cassandra calls from where she holds a shield up against a wraith, shaking off what it flings at her and slicing it where it floats.

Evelyn is already making her way up. The steps are steep and frosted. “Who’s fighting?!” She calls. Soldiers, she hopes. Not civilians.

“You’ll see soon. Hurry! We must help them.” And Cassandra is right up on her, urging her to move faster and though the pain in Evelyn’s hand causes her to shake worse than lyrium withdrawal she moves faster.

She hears shouts of men and women, the clattering of metal.

Over the rise she sees several soldiers but the ones she believes to be the most battle experienced are the archer and the mage. The mage calls up a frightening amount of ice with little effort and Trevelyan moves to aid him first out of habit.

The blow she deals the shade shatters it completely. She reflects with some amount of admiration that not even Lysandir would have so completely frozen a creature. Icy black blood falls over her boots. The mage turns to her, eyes widen for a brief moment, and he nods in thanks.

Cassandra is in front of the archer who uses a mechanized crossbow of the likes of which Evelyn has never seen before.

Evelyn feels a barrier cast over her, different from Rachel’s since it doesn’t glide over her skin so much as find her and lock around her, and turns to the mage who juts his chin at the other demons that are making their way to them.

The battle is quick and Evelyn is already counting the next host of demons that will come through when the mage grabs her hand with a surprisingly amount of strength.

He lifts the marked hand urgently. “Quickly! Before more come through!”

The mark hisses and spits and a winding tendril of green climbs from it to the rift. It shakes and pulls, pushes and finally with a yank, the rift snaps shut. Evelyn staggers back mostly from surprise and the elven mage steps back from her.

He watches her carefully with narrowed eyes.

She hears the dwarf say something to the Seeker but all she hears is the pounding of her heart in her ears.

And just like that, her whole world changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first work of fiction i've written in a long time that isn't an assignment and first fanfiction i've ever written. constructive criticism would be appreciated.


	2. hinterlands: mihris and the elven artifact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first edit: 9/24

_“That’s her...that’s the Herald of Andraste.”_

_People knelt at the ground, some had fists pressed to their chests and others bowed their heads deeply while Evelyn shakily made her way out of the cabin to follow the elven woman who hadn’t answered her questions. These were the same people who had given her black looks of hatred when they had thought she had been the Divine’s murderer._

_The thought of so easily shifting the thoughts of people in such a massive way, in so large a number, unsettled her. Chantry flock indeed, she supposed._

_She walked undeterred to the rising peak of the Chantry up ahead. The last time she had actually been inside of a Chantry for the act of prayer or confession was ages ago, it felt like. Only when she’d first been inducted into the Templar Order when nightly prayer and meditation was a requirement; to show dedication and faith._

_Evelyn had always had spades of dedication - her choice in combat style reflected that. Tempests were rarely without control; if they were it was due to impatience and a misunderstanding of the flow of battle both friendly and hostile. They had to have control over themselves, the battle and a constant awareness otherwise they were likely to burn themselves when they set themselves on fire._

_Faith though. Evelyn was intelligent enough she could fake a little of it. She had faith after all when it came down to the technicalities of it - just not faith in the Maker._

_She had slept for days, it felt like. Her head felt fuzzy, her limbs less than graceful and uncooperative in the finer aspects of movement. She felt as if she walked on stilts, minding her balance the whole way to the heavy doors of the Chantry._

_They towered over her and her muscles shook from the strain of opening them but once she did, all she saw were the sisters gathered near candles and a long carpet that led to the door she assumed Cassandra was behind._

_The sisters whispered amongst themselves in a tone that they apparently believed to be quiet:_

_“Chancellor Roderick says the Chantry wants nothing to do with us.”_

_“That’s not Chancellor Roderick’s decision, sister.”_

_“So that’s her? She’s a templar, isn’t she? Doesn’t that mean we’re meant to go side with the templars? The Maker’s own Bride chose her.”_

_“I shudder at the thought of a templar having Andraste’s favor.”_

_“And a mage would be better?”_

_“Well at least she isn’t an oxman.”_

_“She stopped the Breach. Andraste herself sent her to us to save us.”_

_“I heard she was supposed to close it entirely.”_

_Evelyn ignored them and tried not to scowl too heavily at anyone as she opened the door to find three people lying in wait._

_Chancellor Roderick pointed at her. “Chain her! I want her sent to Val Royeaux to face trial immediately.”_

_“Ignore him. And leave us. We have important matters to discuss.” Cassandra’s eyes speared Evelyn where she stood._

_Leliana, the hooded Left Hand of the Divine held a black book in her hands. A baleful eye stared at Evelyn from its back cover. She felt her breath freeze in her lungs. She knew that eye._

_She caught Leliana’s gaze while Cassandra and the Chancellor took turns snapping at each other. Leliana quirked a mysterious smile that withheld more than it told._

 

 

 

She had visited Ferelden before, but never this far west. Never the Hinterlands. The entire place makes the back of her head prickle, like soft fingers nearly touching her scalp with just the tips of gentle nails. The entire place is steeped in ruins, secrets and caves and history forgotten by its inhabitants. She wonders if the Seeker feels it. It feels like being near an extremely powerful mage who makes no attempt to hide their power.

Like being near the Senior Enchanter of Ostwick. Like being near Vivienne. Sometimes, in brief moments that catch her off guard like slipping on a wet rock, Solas feels that way too.

And the Hinterlands has bears everywhere. Great brown towering beasts that are more aggressive than those she had ever encountered before. Once, they had spotted one and it had spotted them, it chased them a mile before Cassandra uttered a noise of disgust and she cleaved its skull with a powerful swing. It hadn't died immediately, disoriented and bleeding and swinging indiscriminately and nearly clipping Varric and Solas. She'd snuck behind it and swept low under it to catch its throat and brain.

It had died with a gurgled roar. They had little in the way of coin and she didn't intend on going to Josephine or Leliana with her hands open. The Inquisition still needed to build its coffers. She’d skinned the bear and butchered it well as she could - she had never butchered bear and the smell of the creature alone made her forget her hunger. But she could barter it elsewhere.

She carried the pungent smell of dead bear with her to the Crossroads with only Solas offering to share the burden – although he specifically means the fur alone - ended up not trading it for coin but fabrics, needles and field medic supplements. It isn't fair to Solas if they all depend on him for after battle care all the time.

She hefts the heavy pouch of fabrics to her waist more securely and notes that when she goes hunting she'll have to care for the animal's skin. She needs more pouches.

She looks up to find Solas walking next to her close to her elbow. "Inquisitor, there is a matter I must address."

She blinks. "Yes?" Often when Solas addresses something, it is usually dangerous or terrible and he is usually right.

"There seems to be elven artifacts scattered across this land. If they are what I believe they are, the writings on them claim they strengthen the Veil. They may help ward off demons." He looks over at her, casting a glance toward where the Seeker and Varric walk up ahead. Their voices are slowly rising in volume. "I thought I might share the locations. One is not far from here. A ruin to the east, small and inconsequential. A little thing. But perhaps it might help."

She doesn't know the lay of the land so from beneath a sheathed hidden knife on her trousers, stitched to look like a pocket, she pulls out the map. Solas raises his eyebrows and looks at her with amusement lurking in his placid calm. She clears her throat. "Would you mark it? It'll be easier to follow on the map."

Solas glances at the map and simply points to a landmark. An old castle ruin. "Here. And I can lead from there." She nods and folds the map thrice one way, thrice the other and tucks it back from whence it came. "If I may venture, your family is very devout to the Maker."

She feels her stomach drop. "Yes they are."

"Ah. Not we?"

Her lips thin and she glances at Solas who looks on straight ahead. "No...no. Not we." She says firmly. He inclines his head.

"No offense intended. I only mean to ask why. With a background as heavily steeped in the Chantry as yours, I had expected..."

"The Herald of Andraste to be a firm Andrastian?" She keeps her voice level. She doesn't think of faith as unintelligent or without warrant. It can be a strength. An escape. An inspiration. Nights are long, days are hard and life is unfair. Besides, she has her own beliefs. She is not entitled to make little of what others may believe. She wonders if Solas believes in anything beyond the Fade.

He chuckles. "Yes. Shortsighted perhaps but you are a templar aside."

She detects no vitriol in his tone. "Not everyone in the Order joined willingly. My parents had the heir, the spare and political matches to other houses were made for my siblings. It was the Order or the Cloister. I chose the Order."

"I have heard the Trevelyans also have mages in the family?" Solas' questions, while personal, do not feel as if they burden her. He speaks to her not as if she is a god's creature or a murderess hiding in the ranks or as a mage is expected to speak to a templar but as a person he knows nothing about and is still wondering if he would want to. It is almost comforting.

"Yes. An older cousin of ours is in the Orlesian Circle. He did well."

"May I ask why you chose the Order over the Cloister?"

"My uncle. He - well he wasn't a templar but he might have been. He was originally the heir of the Trevelyan family, before my mother. He was attacked by darkspawn when he was younger. He became a Grey Warden." And Evelyn lets her affection for the man sink into the tale. "He was what the Wardens referred to as a ranger. He was often alone, either looking for recruits or hounding traces of darkspawn. Chasing rumors about Old Gods. It wasn't allowed, to visit family. But considering he was solitary throughout his service, he didn’t pay any mind to that rule."

Solas remains quiet for a moment. "They are inspirational to you then? The Wardens?"

"The Wardens are great warriors, good protectors. But my uncle was my hero. He was scruffy and his hair reached his shoulders. His voice was rough from a knife in the throat in a battle long ago. He took me into the woods one day when I was seven and taught me how to use a knife, a bow and how to trap. Small survival skills. But he made my mind up. And my parents'. So, I went to the Order."

"I imagine he was proud of you." There is something in his voice that nearly makes her look at him, but she concentrates on answering the question.

"I don't know." She answers truthfully. "I went to the Order when I was ten and then the Blight struck Ferelden. He fought at Ostagar."

"I am sorry for your loss." He says quietly.

"He didn't think the Cloister was for me. I had questions about the Maker, about Andraste the sisters never answered. My uncle didn't believe in the Maker. But he believed in the Old Gods."

"Curious." Solas mutters.

"But I had virtues learned from him that carried on into my service with the Order. He taught me that strength means very little in the world if it isn't put to use. He believed that if someone had the power to help then they were compelled to for the sake of goodness. 'And I am your sword and shield, the torch when darkness closes around you and your sanctuary when evil may find you.'" She hesitates, at the precipice of telling Solas why she does not believe her uncle would be proud of her, but holds her tongue.

"Interesting quote, if a bit radical and grim. Your uncle was a poet?" It sounds as if Solas recognizes her drop in conversation and chooses not to ask after it. She appreciates the regard to her space. She has always had little of it.

But his question draws an amused snort from her. "Would you believe me if I said that was actually written by an ancient Tevinter priest? It was part of a passage in that temple’s mandate."

Solas sighs but there is a crinkle to the corners of his eyes that belies his humor.

She smiles slightly and turns to face the front where Varric and Cassandra have begun to argue. She purses her lips and slows her gait slightly. She has no wish to be caught in that storm. Solas chuckles and does the same. "I see no safe harbor from that." She whispers from the corner of her mouth.

Companionably walking in silence beside Solas, she hazards a question. "You said you weren't Dalish but do you share their belief in the Creators?" Solas blinks and a hand comes up to rub the bridge of his nose. "I mean no offense, Solas." She hurries to say.

"No, no. It isn't that. It is a complex question." He sounds tired.

"There aren't any Dalish around, so at least it isn't loaded." She tries to lighten the mood. It doesn't work, but Solas continues.

"I believe they existed but I do not believe they were gods. They were creatures of great power with a long enough lasting lifespan that it functioned as, or at least could academically be considered, immortality. And as a consequence, they were worshipped as deities." He smiles self deprecatingly at her. "So I believe."

She nods, seeing the logic behind the theory. "I once asked a Chantry mother if Tevinter was right. If Andraste was a mage."

"I can't imagine that went well."

"No. I had already been given to the Order. I was forced to do hours of prayer. By the time it was done, I had lost my voice and one of the older templars had to carry me to my cot because I couldn't walk."

Solas makes a noise of disgust. "Over a child asking a question."

"It was mostly because a templar who isn't devout is seen as a bigger danger. But - it made sense to me. Andraste being a mage. It - it made me think...what if the Maker was a spirit? She might have looked to it for guidance, like you do. She was Alamarri and their shamans to this day seek advice from ancestors that are long dead. Maybe she was a mage and the Maker was a spirit she asked for help. And the Chantry edited it so it didn't sound like she was another Tevinter magister."

Solas is silent and it feels oppressive. She looks over at him and his brows are high and he looks surprised, intrigued. "And the General Shartan?" He finds his voice to ask another question.

Her lips twist and she wonders if he finds fault with her imaginings of Andraste's lore. She doesn't think so, Solas is a person of deep thought, and he wouldn't outright dismiss it as ridiculous. She hopes.

"He was an elf. Any elf that manages to be successful or otherwise heroic is often buried in human history books." She pauses, feeling ashamed. "And I have never read a book not written by a human."

Solas nods. "Not many do." And he seems to consider her for a brief moment, and then they hear the roar of a bear and Cassandra groans up ahead.

"I hate _bears_."

 

 

 

The elven mage who calls herself Mihris tells them that she is here on behalf of her Keeper. She was sent to investigate nearby ruins the clan's hunters had spotted, she says.

Before she can respond to Mihris, Solas' soft voice cuts in. " _Ma harel, da'len_."

And Mihris' eyes widen and she nervously skirts around them to the mouth of the collapsed ruin.

Evelyn turns to Solas, following the Dalish woman's path up the hill. "Why did you call her a liar?"

Solas turns to her with a strange half smile. "I did not realize you spoke elvhen."

She shakes her head minutely. "I know...a few phrases, some words."

The strange half smile melts away and he says only: "She lied about why she was here. And she lied about the demon."

"She was treating with him." She is aware enough to know that the shade had been caught off guard and Mihris’ magic had felt desperate, rushed and startled in her first attacks. She follows Varric into the ruin and almost misses Solas saying -

"She speaks of a dead clan."

And the visit to the ruin is mostly battling off wraiths and shades and there in the back of the room there is a globe, cracked but whole. Solas murmurs from behind that it is an artifact of his people. The veilfire torch in her hand makes something shine to her left on rubble and she follows it. An elven rune gleams at her. Solas makes an approving noise in his throat when she can manage to read it aloud although she feels as though he is silently laughing at her pronunciation.

She strides over to the globe and crouches before it curiously. There is a bar but near the bar is what looks like a space that is meant to be depressed. She presses it and flinches back when the bar moves and a green light the color of the Breach spills forth. The anchor pulses in her hand like a heartbeat.

Mihris attempts to leave with an amulet but Solas stops her and with a few words in elvhen convinces her that it is best left with them. Perhaps it is a younger elf obeying the wisdom of an older, more learned elf. Perhaps she is still wary of Solas' words from earlier. Either way she relinquishes the amulet to Solas who tucks it into the sack at his side. Mihris leaves, glancing at Solas once before she disappears.

As they leave the ruins, Solas looks at her with that curious half smile again. "Do you know what I said that time?"

Language was never Evelyn's forte. She did well in her arithmetic instead. But she did think that if she worked at it enough, she could navigate at least understanding it. Somewhat.

"Not...entirely. Gratitude and debt." She frowns slightly. "She should be grateful. And – debt to us?"

"That is the general essence of it, yes. We will have to work on your finer points in elvish." He gives her a humoring look that reminds her of a teacher with a pupil. It makes her feel slightly sheepish.

"We should look for the Warden now." Cassandra calls. "And see if he knows anything about the others."

No one argues, but Varric does grumble, "What, search for the one type of person who basically only comes up for air when the end of the world is close? Sounds cheerful. And through all the templar and mage fights. Even better."

Trekking over large hills, craggy rocks and forest, they manage to avoid the bears and wolves and for now hedge around the fighting templars and mages. Their numbers are too great for only four of them.

"Where did you learn what elvish you know?" Solas asks. She walks slightly behind him to his right, bringing up the rear while Cassandra heads the front with Solas and Varric between the two of them.

She clears her throat. "A friend taught me a little."

"Dalish?"

At this point Varric throws his question over his shoulder, presumably done arguing with the Seeker for the time being. "Or a lover, oh great and powerful Glowing Hand?"

Cassandra makes a rude noise.

She sighs. "No. A friend. He was the First of a clan. But we brought him to Ostwick Circle."

And suddenly she is very aware of Solas' gaze resting on her, heavy and wary.

"We were hunting Lyrium smugglers. When we found them, they were revealed to be slavers as well. They had an elf bound and gagged. When I freed him I saw that they had removed his eyes. He told me his clan would not accept him back. Blind, he would have been an unfit Keeper and...they can only have so many with magical abilities in one camp. I escorted him to the Circle."

"As if sight is key in magical ability and judgment." Solas remarks darkly.

"His name is Lysandir. He was my friend. As much as the restrictions allowed us to be. When the mage rebellion began, Ostwick Circle burned. Templars were killing mages. Mages were killing templars. The villagers were terrified of all of us. I happened to be on roosting duty when it happened. I took who I could and fled the fighting. It was why I was wanted by the templars and villagers." She finished quietly.

"You helped them escape." Solas realizes. "Mages."

"Who I could. Who would trust me."

At this point, the entire group has slowed. Varric is listening intently and even Cassandra seems invested.  

She clears her throat awkwardly. "Anyway. Two tranquil, four mages and three children. Rachel was the only other mage who could battle. Justin and Nana were too old. One of the tranquil was old so he'd been left behind in the fighting by both sides and the other tranquil -"

_Squeezing so he feels it, she turns and sees a shadow in the doorway. The man beneath her screams and bucks._

_The tranquil stares at them. Looks at her. "You should have closed the door. People are sleeping and might have heard you. I will do it now." And the door shuts and she is alone in the archives with the vile man, who if not for her, would avoid punishment that suits his crime._

"Is someone I knew. I secured us passage to Ferelden. An old contact from when I had gone hunting there -"

" _You_ had a contact?" Varric asks. As if it is an enormous surprise that templars must reach into the seedy underground beyond the Chantry. Some don’t. Some do.

She smiles a little. "You're thinking of Cullen. Knights undergo more intense rites than hunters. They are also kept close to the Circle. Hunters go where the Chantry tells them and hunts who they are told to hunt. Templar hunters sometimes are put on roosting duty where they stay near the Circle, either to bolster numbers or due to an injury." She grins without mirth. "After the explosion at Kirkwall, I was summoned back to help inflate the ranks and I was the closest when the call went out."

"How did you manage to secure passage? An eclectic group like that would have made it difficult to barter, who would take you?" Cassandra questions. Varric quirks a curious brow and Solas waits in silence.

"My contact owned a couple ships. Mostly for leathers and furs that primarily went to Denerim."

_"You're fucking cracked if you think I'm going to transport this whole lot." He stares at her, eyes bloodshot from having been woken in the late night._

_"We all need transportation. I've more than enough coin." Because if worse comes to worse, she will hunt for their food and they will sleep huddled together in the elements. And should they need coin, there is always work for a swordhand or a spy._

_He snorts, spits out the phlegm to the side. "Don't give two shits if you're a templar and they're mages. What I care about is that." He points behind her to where Lysandir and Rachel stand, clasping hands in the dark. "Not risking my neck for a knife - ear and a knife - ear fucker." And he weighs the pouch of coin she dangles before him. "And you don't have nearly enough coin for that." And then he is turning away._

_She will get these people away. And she has already burned her bridges at Ostwick, her brothers and sisters in arms yelling traitor at her fleeing form. She doubts another bridge, minor in the scope of that, will matter much._

_She does not need her flasks or her daggers._

_She surges, a wave of water that nearly crushes him beneath unknown depths and she chokes him with a firm fist. Her hand is an iron band. She will kill him and take the ship if she must. And she ignores the thought that his wife and children sleep upstairs peacefully (safely) in beds his coin bought them._

_“We need a ship. Tonight. The one I know is going to Ferelden.” She tightens her grip and pushes him against the sturdy wood of his door. The harbor is nearly empty, save for his remaining ships and the small fishing boats that will not carry them so far as Brandel’s Reach._

_He coughs into her face. She doesn’t flinch at the scent of alcohol and rotting teeth but it makes her wrinkle her nose and frown out of reflex. She leans in and whispers: “I will kill you and steal a ship. Don’t think I won’t. We just need passage. Do this favor for me and you will never see my face again. Don’t, and it will be the last thing you see.”_

_He bats at her shoulders and she eases back. Her hand no longer holds his throat, but cups it loosely._

_“Fucking - crazy...templar bitch.” He looks at those she shepherds. “Fine. The Sea Bitch sails on the early morrow. Make it, you have passage. Don’t, and you’re fucked.” He swipes out and takes the pouch from her other hand. “But you never. Never come back. I’ll tell the dock master about you and all the other bastards here. And you stay away from me and mine.”_

_She releases him and gathers her flock._

“We fled to Ferelden and docked at Gwaren. It was either a straight shot to Redcliffe with all the templars and mages going at each other or braving the Brecilian Forest. We chose the forest.”

“Holy shit.” Varric quietly exclaims.

Overhead the trees shade them from the sun and everyone is dappled in patches of shadow and sunlight. A calm wind rolls through. Nothing about this wilderness reminds her of the Brecilian. It is a wilderness but has a tamed, softer quality to it even with the bears. The Brecilian Forest is not a tamable creature and it would eat any alive who would ever try.

“The roads were dangerous, so we kept entirely to the forest. The tranquil, his name was Tamlier, and Rachel foraged. Lysandir guarded the camp and Justin set wards and traps. Jutten and Nana minded the children. I hunted. We survived all the way until Denerim and then we parted ways.” She pauses, unsure how to appropriately close the story, or how to put the tumult of her feelings into words. Leaving her friends to a fate she was unsure of, but the necessity to do so - the alienage had taken them in because Lysandir and the children were all elves. Evelyn had hunted, been hunted and survived by running and staying out of sight. She could only hope, at the time, that when Redcliffe began taking in mages, that they had been able to go there instead. The alienage could only hide so many mages for so long.

The worry that had hounded her for every animal she hunted - ‘ _were they being hunted? Were they hungry? Were the children scared?_ ’ - and every crazed templar, every mad apostate, every bandit, thief and mercenary who saw the image of her face on the wanted posters pasted to taverns offering gold in exchange for her capture - ‘ _I should not have left them, I should have stayed._ ’ The worry had been - still is - the noose that tightened around her neck with her standing tiptoe on a tilted chair.

Varric looks at her for a long moment. “It was hard.” She opens her mouth but he holds his hands up. “I know that face. _I_ make that face. Do you know if they’re okay?” The question is gentle, like the sympathetic look in his eyes and beyond him Cassandra’s brow is furrowed with concern.

“No. I don’t.” She doesn’t choke on the words, but they choke her nonetheless.

“Perhaps when we next have the opportunity, we could send word to Denerim.” Solas says it softly as if he spoke any louder she would bolt.

She nods and looks down. “It would appreciated.”

Cassandra makes an affirmative noise. “I had not known what you did to receive that price on you - it had said treason and we assumed it happened before the Kirkwall incident.” She about-faces and begins her long legged march again. “I know now that it was unworthy. To you. _You_ were worthy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any concrit would be appreciated. i cringed my way through the first chapter to get this one.


	3. hinterlands: mages and templars

 

 

They set up camp near a small waterfall and mark it for the Inquisition scouts to follow but Evelyn insists on cresting the hill to where the lake sits above. Cassandra agrees, stating that the Warden is close enough and that there is still light to spare in the day. Varric helpfully grumbles that humans and elves were made for walking on hills and grass - dwarves were not.

The tension in the group is something she mostly blames herself for. But it is not the uncomfortable silence that weighs upon her. It is the knowledge that the realization her story gave them about her had the air of people believing her to be one thing and subsequently finding out she didn’t match up to their imagining of her.

She wonders briefly if they’re disappointed but the thought runs from her when a ram with the coloring of a forest fox bounds in front of her and stares at her with one large, cautious eye. It is, by far, the strangest looking ram she has ever seen and it is enough for her to stop in her tracks.

Cassandra stops just behind her and though she doesn’t turn to her, she knows the Seeker already has a hand on her sword hilt. “Herald - what is it? Demons?” She stops, pausing to look at the ram that is still eyeing their party. “A ram.” The Seeker deduces, sounding decidedly unimpressed despite the ram’s irregular coloring.

Evelyn herself rather thinks the ram would fetch a good price on the market - and his hide would make some fantastic lining.

“Oh come now, Seeker. Our Herald is a having a 'one with nature' moment. Where’s your poetic sensibilities?” Varric lightly scolds as he ascends to stand to the side of Cassandra. He looks the ram up and down. “Weird ram though. Just standing there. Maybe it was a pet?”

Solas comes beside her and says nothing, cocking his head in question at the creature that stands so still before them. It raises its snout to the wind and its upper lip curls away from its teeth. “A curious beast of even stranger origin.” Solas murmurs beside her. She carefully looks at him from her periphery without turning her head.

“Is that your full explanation for it?” The beast gains her attention again when it perches on a tall rock to gaze with its face centered on them. It is a strange creature, some strange combination of fearlessness and knowing - perhaps Varric was right and it is someone’s pet - but the Breach has done strange things to the creatures here. The wolves alone were example enough. They attacked without sense but that had been due to a demon taking lead of the pack. After killing the demon, the wolves became just wolves instead of the mad things that had been roaming the land.

She could understand a demon commanding wolves or bears - predators with claws and teeth. A demon commanding a ram is just slightly better than a fennec fox.

Solas hums. “It is the closest, truthful, explanation I can give without attempting to approximate or make assumptions.” He says unhelpfully.

Cassandra looks the slightest bit annoyed and heaves a great sigh. She trudges forward and the ram, seeing her approach, lets out a bleat and bounds away to rejoin its fellows who linger at the edges of lakeside that are ripe with blood lotus. “Over a ram.” She grumbles.

“He was a large one. He would have made good eating, and his hide likely would have fetched a nice price at the market.” Evelyn says.

Solas lets out a strangled cough behind her.

But it is just as well they leave the creature be. She hears a man’s voice shouting orders authoritatively. She sees a Warden standing before three young men in farming clothes. His armor and helmet give him away. They gleam like silverite in the sun, bright and shining, and he must take good care of them despite the wear on them. As they get closer, she is able to see the creases in his greaves and the grooves in his breastplate, his griffon helmet is cracked but remains a proud reminder of his allegiance.

“Line here and here - no gaps. Drive them to me if you can and hold steady. Do not let them push you too far back, else you’ll break rank and you’ll be putting each other in danger.” He paces before them, clearly ringing out battle instructions.

“Warden Blackwall?” She calls out when they’re closer. “Are you Warden Blackwall?”

He turns. His expression is steel and granite upon her. “Who are you? You’re no farmer - and how d’you know my name?”

“We are with the Inquisition. And we have questions regarding the other Wardens. They have all vanished - all but you. It coincides with the Divine’s murder.” Cassandra levels him with a piercing stare.

“What? Wardens aren’t about politics -” And then he flings up his shield to block an arrow from piercing his face. Coming in a large pack from over the hill are raiders with mismatched weapons and armor. “That’s it. Help or get out. We’re dealing with these idiots first.”

Evelyn flings a flask of fire upon herself when she feels Solas’ barrier find her and lock around her, like the snaps of armor settling into place. It is different from any other barrier she had ever felt; likely due to his nature as a hedge mage.

The fight is not exciting but she isn’t surprised. The bandits had expected attacking weaponless, unassuming farmers rather than the strange group gathered here.

After they are slain and the young men retreat to their homesteads, Cassandra immediately plants herself before Blackwall and looks over at her to signal her to speak.

The Warden removes his helmet to tuck it beneath his arm. His eyes are on her and they are softer than she had originally thought. “So. Inquisition?”

She nods. “We’ve heard rumors about the Grey Wardens vanishing. And then we heard you were still around. We’re just curious if this is something to do with what happened at the Conclave or if it means something else. Like a Blight coming.” She does not even want to contemplate the chance of the Blight sweeping across the lands barely a decade after the last one, especially with Thedas breaking at the seams as it is. But she prefers knowing the bad news rather than believing there is none.

Blackwall frowns. “I didn’t know they were missing. I’m a ranger afield - recruiting, chasing rumors. Hunting darkspawn. I...don't believe there is a Blight.”

Her eyes narrow. “No?” She asks. “No sign at all?”

“No.” Blackwall confirms with a short nod. “Haven’t seen an archdemon, yet. And darkspawn haven’t been crawling out of every bloody crevice available to them so I think it’s safe to say there is no Blight. Regardless of what our sins may be, I prefer to think that the Maker wouldn’t allow a Blight to happen again so soon.”

She keeps her peace after that and Cassandra hassles him about the Divine. Blackwall knows nothing. He instead offers to join the Inquisition.

It isn’t the first time a Warden has stepped out of the clear lines of their restrictive duty - her uncle was proof of that and so was the Hero of Ferelden. Something disquiets her about him all the same. He is a sturdy warrior, experienced and compassionate. But he is - he feels as if there is a smudge on him somewhere. A black stain on a writing surface from a spilled ink bottle.

It is of course because he didn’t respond to her inquiry about the Blight in the way her uncle would have. She doesn’t know how a Warden would appropriately explain how they knew a Blight was coming beyond “archdemon” and “sensing an inordinate amount of darkspawn”. Her uncle would have explained it with much detail to support his claim if there were to be one or not. But Blackwall is only a Warden. Not her uncle.

Cassandra and Varric approve of his addition and Solas seems to as well although he is already looking afar again. He becomes uninvested in conversation quickly. She wonders if it because he is an elf amongst humans, or because he is a hedge mage in the company of those who would have in different circumstances bound him, or if it is both or neither.

She follows his gaze and sees that he is staring at a voyeur of their party. It is the strange colored ram again. It bleats at them once.

Her brows furrow. “Did he follow us?”

“He is curious.” Solas responds only half aware of her question.

“He is curious about things or he is a curious thing?” She asks.

Solas regards her for a moment. “Both.”

They turn their attention back to the ram that eyes them from atop another hill. She realizes just how large it is compared to the others when one of the other fully grown rams stops to graze beside it.

“Oh hey, it’s our buddy. Who followed us. Creepy.”

“That ram again?” A short, impatient sigh cuts the air. “Rams and bears.”

The new voice of their Warden ally interjects into the conversation. "Is there a specific reason we’re all just staring at rams? Is this an Inquisition hobby? Or does this sort of thing happen when you recruit someone and you’re just having them on?”

“It is, unfortunately, not a rare occurrence.” Cassandra declares.

  
  


 

The Ferelden horse does not like her or find her behavior on its back even remotely appropriate. It throws her twice and obeys her commands with such irritation that she eventually comes to the conclusion that this relationship will not end well. She can’t fault it completely; templar mounts were trained for the specialization of their riders. In her time with the Order, her horse had been fast, small and well prepared when she balanced her feet on its back to throw herself into battle or when she would fling herself back in its saddle.

The Ferelden horse nearly crumples on top of her when she slides herself beneath its belly as she lines up an arrow to surprise a towering bandit. Her arrow goes wide, her horse falters and another horse - a dun colored mare it looks to be stops before hers and hands take her reins.

Solas.

She is still curled beneath the horse and Solas uses his mare to herd her gelding from the fighting. Cassandra has her stallion charge through the ranks of the bandits, swinging her mace with Blackwall right behind her. Varric fires a spray of arrows into the air and a sunflask breaks open over the archers in the back, releasing a blinding flash.

“Are you well, Herald?” His voice is naturally deceptive and she immediately can tell he is just the slightest bit cross with her - if at least finding some humor in the fact that she is still clinging to the stomach of her huffing horse.

“Very.” After some shifting and one hand shooting out to grab Solas’ leg, she hefts herself upright on the horse’s back. “I’m used to doing that.” She explains and Solas nods, eyes just a tad too wide and innocent. “The horse...is not.” Even as she speaks, the beast dances beneath her with an air of impatience.

“It would seem not, considering he nearly toppled over you.” Solas slips from his mare and pats her neck. She makes a soft sound and nudges his arm with a gentle muzzle. Evelyn tries very hard not to envy his easy rapport with the creature.

Without bothering to use his staff, he casts a small field of ice on the men who had begun to sneak around Blackwall and Cassandra to corner Varric. Varric laughs a thanks at Solas before leaping back and firing off five arrows at once, the ice figures shattering like glass.

As she slips from the back of her horse, she feels it in the air.

“There is magic permeating the air. I believe we are near the mages’ hideout.” Solas remarks as he collects his staff from the side of his mare.

They must be; the air is heavy from the magic. 

She heads off when Cassandra deals the killing blow to the mercenary group's leader and Blackwall flushes the rest of them out towards Varric and Solas. Ahead there are large spirals of ice and a pond is completely frosted over.

She slips behind one of the pillars of ice to peer into the darkened cave. There are a lot of enchanters but seems to be only one mage.Between Seeker Pentaghast and herself it should make killing them relatively easier. It is only - well it is wasteful. Were they not acting the part of raiders and butchers, she would have preferred them to seek sanctuary in Redcliffe. As it stands, although she appreciates their fight against the world that has always done them wrong, they will have to die.

She looks to her side to see Varric cranking back bolts on Bianca. Cassandra moves ahead without fear or hesitation; her walk is the grim stride of an executioner. Solas has a look of some disgust on his face. "Maddened by their own imprisonment in Circles and rather than trying to prove their own benignity, they raid homes, burn land and terrorize the very people they should be garnering sympathy from." His distaste is palpable.

"Yeah well Blondie didn't really plan for this whole uprising thing. Not that he would have the sense to at that point." Varric plants his back firmly against the pillar he lurks behind.

Evelyn swallows her own feelings on the matter to find calm in the storm. Cassandra unsheathes her sword and holds it aloft. Solas breaks the barrier with several fast strikes of magic and immediately fadesteps away when Cassandra lets out a war cry followed by a powerful smite that stuns the enchanters within.

Evelyn breaks a flask on herself and dives into the middle of the fray. The enchanters are not overly concerning, but the mage with the staff of twisted wood and crystal is. He commands the enchanters as best as he can. His primary talent lies in fire and battle. He spits at Cassandra and casts a fire glyph beneath her that lights up and flings her to the ground. Her armor keeps majority of the flame from her although the air is scented with heated metal now.

In an effort to cover her, Blackwall drags her from the glyph and holds his shield against the flames that pour from the mage's staff. The enchanters work to trap Varric who manages to stay one step ahead, evading and keeping them from sneaking up behind Blackwall and Cassandra. Solas, with a twist of his wrist and a jab of his staff slicks the ground beneath the enchanters on the hill the moment Varric lets loose a volley of arrows. They move, slip and crash into one another ungainly.

Across them, Cassandra is up and snarls, holding her shield at an angle and ramming into the surprised mage with enough force that it lifts him clear off his feet.

Evelyn, for her part, has already killed the enchanters in the corners of the entrance and removed the threat of the mercenaries that guard them.

She darts after the enchanters on the higher ground. One dagger flies through the eye of a man and he drops, another manages to fling ice at her face but the familiar barrier is over her a moment before the ice can make contact with her jaw. She forgoes the remaining dagger and instead shoves her elbow into his throat, her other hand comes up to cradle the bottom on his skull. Her eyes lock on his and his mouth parts in surprise. She snaps his neck and he crumples to the ground. She hears the sound of arrows sinking into flesh and turns to see a mercenary dead behind her. There are no enemies left, but one. 

The mage Cassandra had battered is left without enough power to even stand. The Seeker speaks to him in an imploring tone. He spits on her feet. Her mace comes down and his skull cracks open, body slumping to the side.

"It is done." Cassandra breathes.

"Sorry bastards." Blackwall sounds genuinely regretful.

"At least the King's Road will be safer." Solas voices.

Evelyn drops to loot the bodies, closing any open eyes she comes across. She can't afford the time or resources they currently have on hand to give them a proper burial, but she can give them some modicum of respect. "Cassandra would you - would you mind giving them their last rites? I fear I've forgotten them." Regardless on how she feels about Andraste and the Maker, at least doing this will keep them people, enemies of what the Inquisition stands for, but still people.

"I - yes. That is a good thought." The Seeker's voice is softer. "I fear, however, that I am not a Revered Mother and do not have a gift with words."

"Just say it like you mean it Seeker. That's all anyone ever wants when it's the end." Varric murmurs. It is a sad voice of experience and Evelyn has a hot-cold curl of sympathy for him that lodges itself in her breast.

Evelyn stops patting pockets when Cassandra begins to speak. She stares at the face of an enchanter she killed. He looks to be fifteen. A boy. The face of her mage-enemy belongs to a boy. She does not look from his face until Cassandra is finished, Blackwall echoing the end of her prayer.

The tips of someone's fingers rest on the rise of her shoulder. "Gather yourself. We must seek out the templars." Solas says, not unkindly.

She gathers herself and decides to ride behind Cassandra when her horse will not let her back on. The destrier Cassandra has is more suited for combat and seems to not even notice her added weight upon him. Her own horse is given instead to Blackwall who had been awkwardly riding behind Varric.

The templars are easier to find than the mages. Most of them seem unbalanced from the lack of lyrium or in the case of one commander too much. Cassandra tries to reason with them but they only have eyes for Solas and his staff.

It is a bloody, hard fight and Evelyn has to have Solas heal her jaw at the end of it. One of the templars had caught her between flasks and badgering enemies to lose their focus while Cassandra and Blackwall took them apart. The templar had bashed his shield into her face and knocked the breath from her with a well aimed punch to the gut. He had nearly fractured her jawbone. Cassandra gives them a eulogy and Evelyn bows her head in respect. She was one of them, regardless of her feelings. She could have still been one of them. 

They make their way to one last holding the templars have claimed when Varric utters a sharp oath.

Ahead in the back of the room in the crumbling castle, giant spikes of pulsing red rock color the darkness.

Evelyn hears it. A song of its own. She hears it just as surely as those templars crowded around it do. They do not engage them as the ones near the waterfall had. They are reluctant to leave it.

The die quickly, less organized and coherent than their counterparts, but far more savage.

"What - Varric is that?" Cassandra sounds aghast on the scene before her.

Varric hisses and runs a hand over his face. "Yeah that's it but shit - what's it doing here? And why is it growing out of the damn stones?"

"What is it? It almost looks like it has a heartbeat." Blackwall wonders.

"It's red lyrium. The stuff Knight-Commander Meredith used and later turned into. Makes statues come to life, makes you go completely crazy. Just what we need." Varric says.

"It...it was also at the Temple of Sacred Ashes." The Seeker says quietly to the dwarf.

"I'd been hoping it was a cheerful coincidence that wouldn't ever happen again. _Shit_."

Evelyn can barely hear them as they continue on. Blackwall's questions, Varric's frightened and panicked answers and Cassandra's growing alarm.

It sings, twisted and sweet like everything she never knew she had wanted until now. It glows red as the blood beneath her skin. It is lost, out of place, and so, so lonely and it knows she is too. It wants to be loved and can give her that love in return if only she loves it as well.

 

A firm hand grips her shoulder and turns her nearly too quickly for her to react in her trance. She focuses on Solas' face. His brows are scrunched in worry and he glances behind her before pulling her to follow his steps back - when had she stepped so close to it? - with more strength than she had anticipated him having.

"Come away from there, there is nothing good about it. You can feel that, can't you?" He whispers to her while the others continue to speak in the background. They have not noticed her yet, wrapped up in their own world as they are. His fingers dig into her shoulders. She is already turning her head at the soft sigh, a caress on her ear, a shadow of touch that bespoke of precious treasured things but Solas shakes her firmly. "Ignore it. Do not look at it."

She looks at him, regards his eyes that are blue and gray like the color of a storm at sea. And with a dread she has never felt before asks, "Can't you hear it, Solas?" The song it sings isn’t just for her alone, but all the things in the world that have been made hollow through design. She can’t be the only to hear it now - the other templars had heard it.

He shakes his head slowly, making sure her attention is only on him. "Not the way you can." There is a quiet horror, a sympathetic quality to his tone that makes the dread a physical weight in her chest. He removes his hands from her slowly.

_“It’s a song from the deep, dark forgotten places beneath our world. We dream of it and it dreams about us and all the things down there with it. We hear the creature as surely as any darkspawn. It speaks and we understand. It sings and we hear it, even from all the way up here.” His patchy face looks down at her, he picks her up, swings her on his lap and sets his chin atop her head. “I only heard the whisper of a song. Broken and fragmented as if whatever sang it wasn’t quite awake.”_

_She kicks her legs and wobbles her head beneath his chin. “Is it good at singing?” She asks. She is eight and does not know what she asks._

_He laughs above her grimly. “Yes. It is.”_

_“What does it sing about? Does it know any Orlesian songs?”_

_He sighs and presses his face against the coils of braid on her head. “It sings and it - there's a loneliness, a desperation and a kind of longing no short-lived creature could ever have. It’s beautiful. And terrible. And we feel only pieces of what it feels. But we feel it all the same, cub.”_

_He cries into her hair silently. She is young and does not understand what he says or why he is sad, but she chooses to pat the arm secured around her waist and hum the Chantry hymn she sang in choir._

And then Blackwall takes his maul to it with Varric's instruction, breaking the foremost pillar that pulses.

The song it sings doesn't crack or turn into a shriek as Blackwall breaks the towering chunk of lyrium. It becomes a whisper, soft and tender at her ear, even when the pillar is in pieces and the glow fades from the surrounding red lyrium spikes. She says nothing to any of them, most especially not Varric who looks as if he's lost a week's worth of sleep in the meantime.

She only climbs on the back of Cassandra’s destrier and waits calmly for the others to file out. Cassandra gives her a long glance before she swings herself up in front of her and takes the horse’s reins. Blackwall is listening to Varric tell the story of his tale of the Deep Roads. Solas’ mount trots beside the stallion. She can feel his eyes on her, weighing and judging and worried, but she cannot bring herself to meet his gaze or give him an assurance she can’t even give herself.

Cassandra calls a halt when the sun turns the sky into streaks of irregular colors and they make camp in an abandoned old hut. It smells of mold and dust but it is blessedly free of blood and rot. Mats are unrolled, Blackwall starts a cheery fire in the pit in the center of the hut after he clears the top spout to allow the smoke to drift out, and Varric opens a flask he offers to everyone gathered around the fire. Cassandra cares for her weapons, grinding out the scores dug into her blade with a well used whetstone and Solas takes inventory of their items. He says they need more elfroot.

The camp is quiet. The silence is broken only when Evelyn excuses herself to go hunt for supper. There is still daylight and the Inquisition forces have mostly cleared the paths around this area so no one says anything contrary although Cassandra nearly gets up to follow her until Solas intervenes by questioning her on the Inquisition’s next move, now that they have convinced Master Dennet to join.

She takes the out he’s given her and slips from the group.

She tracks a group of rams, quiet in the settling dark and standing near each other, some boldly lying down near patches of elfroot and blood lotus. Her daggers are tucked away but her short bow is out with an arrow ready. She focuses on the ram resting peacefully with it head against a tree instead of the barest outline she can glimpse of the ruined castle in the distance. The ram is dead with one well aimed arrow and the others let out warning calls and shuffle away but there is little other activity from them.

She has not even thought about how she alone is meant to carry the ram back to camp. She does not have her pack with her, but she manages to butcher it and take the choice cuts and wrap them in the hide she cuts away from the creature. Her butchery is suffering at the moment but she doubts any of them will notice that her cuts are not so clean - with the likely exception of Solas who sees far too much.

Eyes gleam at her from the dark and she sees that black wolves - numbering in three - watch her from the bushes. She leaves her kill where it is. It will not go to waste. The eyes watch her as she descends the steep hill but the wolves do not hound her heels and she is grateful for it. It is hard enough walking in the dark with the heavy hide full of meat slung over one shoulder, tied only with strips of tendon from the ram’s legs, she does not need the added burden of avoiding wolves.

She deliberately takes the long way back to avoid seeing the castle ruins.

She imagines that if she strays too closely to it with so many of those shards littering its floors, she'll still hear it. Not a song with words she can't understand yet still _knows_ , but a muted, constant hum that she will strain desperately to hear.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was a picture posted that had solas standing beside an ancient elf. he's really short. what-i don’t even. ancient elves were huge.
> 
> a comment pointed out that i have some issues with sentence structure and i totally do as well as grammar/punctuation/some tense confusion errors but for the sake of updating regularly i'm not going to edit the chapters immediately. i'm going to post them and then just comb through them and edit them later when i have more time (and feel free to point out really bad ones specifically). i work nights and go to school during the day so i do all my writing when i have downtime at work on my phone. so the work won't be clean when i post it but i will try to be more mindful and will definitely go back and clean up. 
> 
> and just as an aside, i personally picture evelyn’s uncle to look something like boromir but scruffier


	4. val royeaux; redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn must consider the possibility that she is at war with her family. That she is now their enemy. A cold creature crawls from the pit of her stomach to make a home in her chest.

Go to Val Royeaux, Josephine said. It will be fine, she said. You are the Herald and the clerics must recognize it eventually, she said.

 

Appeal to the Chantry and public as a trusted templar and protector, Cullen said. Show them that you are there for them and the good of the people, he said.

 

They may try to kill you anyway, Leliana said.

 

Evelyn hates being the face of an entire organization. Not for her own modesty - she’s a Trevelyan and had played as such until the war burst open over all of Thedas like a particularly grotesque boil. No, she hates it for the simple fact that she is a rogue and now she is constantly having to watch people from all sides _watch her_. Eyes that roam over every part of her, weighing, judging, looking, watching while her training demands she stick to the shadows, vanish from sight and observe from a distance. She can’t bloody well do that if the Inquisition needs a face.

 

She has been to Val Royeaux before, even before she found herself in Madame de Fer’s salon. She has family here, distant and close, and she knows the look of the Orlesian Circle. But Val Royeaux is different from all of them - the wrong word at the wrong moment will have everyone, even those not within the court, know that you are a fool, a tyrant, or weak. In combat, Evelyn can feint and dodge nearly anything and adapt accordingly. The court is no place for a proper soldier, and although she isn’t a knight, she was made to be just another specialized Chantry dog.

 

She doesn’t feel any better knowing that Varric - who has spoken of some of the dwarves’ frankly terrifying political and social norms - is at her side laughing quietly or Cassandra who glowers at everyone even as her stride forces the crowd to part. She envies Solas a bit though, whose unassuming traveler’s clothes and heritage allows him to observe quietly and unnoticed from their flank.

 

Val Royeaux is a veritable pit of vipers. There are nobles looking down from balconies, servants listen in the crowds, guards point sharpened swords when the Revered Mother declares that the templars have marched to meet the so-called Inquisition. Evelyn feels her heart stop when the Lord Seeker comes into view.

 

Cassandra gasps out his name in confusion and she hears Varric curse quietly behind her. Lord Seeker Lucius scowls down at her. "Trevelyan. A well-respected name. Devout. Loyal. True servants of the Maker." His stare is unflinching on her. "At least most of the noble line is. A shame then, to see it so weak in others. A puppet!" He declares, stepping down from the dais while the crowd swells in the gathering excitement. "Raised up by this so called heretical Inquisition, daring to use the deceased Divine's name. I would have thought it impossible that a Trevelyan would stoop to such foolish idiocy. Seeing your record, however, I find myself unsurprised. And unimpressed." His frown deepens as he walks closer to her. "It is good then, that we have enough Trevelyans to keep the name in the Maker's good graces - even despite your smear on such well kept loyalty."

 

Evelyn bites down on her tongue hard enough that she draws blood. Any courage she might have had feels as if it's drying up. Coming in from the gates behind him are three templars without their helms. All three are knights. All three are Trevelyans. Elise - the older cousin who had braided her hair and read books to her - stands beside her brother Willem who had made mud pies and bothered the stable boys long before he had been old enough to ride a charger. Beside them is a man she guesses is also, somehow, someway a Trevelyan through marriage. He scowls like the rest of her family.

 

Willem speaks, his voice thunderous in his disdain, and not at all like the squeaky voiced youth of her childhood who had been unable to follow her up trees. "The Trevelyan templars stand _firmly_ with you Lord Seeker. Our loyalty is not under scrutiny due to shared blood with a traitor, is it?" Willem does not even deign to look at Evelyn. Elise does, her eyes tender with disappointment.  

 

Lord Seeker Lucius responds to him without looking from Evelyn. "No. Even lines as devoted as the Trevelyans must suffer thin blooded children."

 

The crowd's murmuring grows louder and Evelyn feels Cassandra's shoulder press momentarily in her own. "We need help closing the Breach." She nearly seeks out Elise's eyes but remains focused, as splintered as her control feels at the moment. "It threatens everyone. If the templars and mages could only-" And Evelyn knew the moment the words left her mouth, she made an error. Lord Seeker's brows draw tight and his mouth contorts into a sneer.

 

"I will listen no more. I have granted your Inquisition far more attention that it will ever rightly deserve. Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march."

 

Cassandra strides to meet him, calling out to him while Varric sighs deeply. “‘Hole in the sky? Not my jurisdiction,’” he mutters sarcastically. “Apparently age-old grudges are more important than the survival of oh I don't know, the entire known world. Hmph. Sounds like the stories I've heard about Orzammar.”  

 

Evelyn barely hears Varric over the roar building in her ears. No. She is the outcast with an affectionate father and she has no given her family more thought since her grandmother had sent her that last missive. She had never thought she would see it, her own family so close in the midst of war but she should have. There is no end she can see except tragedy. Nothing that she wants for her family, estranged and disagreeable as she is, this is not what she wants for them.

 

But this is war. She has chosen her side. Elise and Willem have chosen theirs.

 

She is on a mission. So are they. They are Trevelyans. _Till the bitterest end_. A joke from a rival noble house, but the words had evolved to emphasize Trevelyan traits. One that fit.

 

Evelyn knows, gazing at the three templars, that those words have always been true. And it feels as if there is an ocean between them in that moment.

 

Willem tromps after the Lord Seeker but Elise stays, swaying with the movement of her brother although her focus is on Evelyn. Quietly so the Lord Seeker and the templars don’t notice, Elise reaches out a hand to squeeze Evelyn’s. Evelyn grips her back reflexively. “Stop this madness. The family is speaking of denouncing you completely. Your father has prevented it thus far since he refuses to believe the rumors, but you know Willem will send word to the rest of the family. Come with me. Leave this Inquisition blasphemy and we can set this right.” Elise steps closer and lays her free hand on Evelyn’s forearm. “I’ll talk with the Lord Seeker, little cousin. We can fix this.”

 

Before Evelyn can speak, Elise turns at the sound of her name. Willem stares at her stormily. For a brief, crazed moment, Evelyn wants to live in this moment of comfort with her cousin. She just wants to cling to her and breathe her in. She doesn’t want to let go of Elise, torn at the thought of this moment being the last time she may see tall, elegant Elise with her softly twisted hair. They had never been particularly close before, but she is still Evelyn’s family. She is still a good woman. And this moment, faced with the gulf that separates her from her family, is the reality she must face. Evelyn had not anticipated this anymore than a farmer anticipates a dragon; obviously possible, but it is a foreign, faraway thought.

 

Evelyn must consider the possibility that she is at war with her family. That she is now their enemy. A cold creature crawls from the pit of her stomach to make a home in her chest.

 

Elise smiles briefly but slides away from Evelyn.

 

“Think about it, Evelyn.” And then she’s out of Evelyn’s reach, walking away with the rest of the templars and Evelyn’s hands feel empty.

 

She doesn’t realize one of her hands is still outstretched and curled in the shape of Elise’s hand until Solas comes up beside her. “Cassandra wishes to leave.” He murmurs and he stares down at her hand. He regards it with sympathy. He hovers close at hand and Evelyn feels sluggish when she blinks and slowly comes back to herself. It feels like the high after breaking too many lightning flasks consecutively. The world comes together slowly, piecing itself back together brokenly.

 

She clears her throat once, twice, before she drops her hand. “Yes.” She doesn’t even know what she’s saying yes to.

 

Solas' brow furrows and his arm jerks as if he means to place a hand on her shoulder to squeeze but Evelyn looks away, turns to look over her shoulder to follow the lines of templars marching out. Elise's form is swallowed by the others.

 

“It is not the end yet. Should the advisors be able to come up with a plan, there is a chance we can salvage this.” Solas counsels quietly at her side.

 

Were this another time, Evelyn might have noticed his habit of always being near when something went wrong.

 

Instead, she thinks "till the bitterest end" and feels her heart clench once and then patter painfully.

 

Instead, she murmurs, “If there’s anything worth salvaging, I’m sure Josephine can do it.” But it doesn’t seem as if it convinces him of her conviction from the long look he gives her. But the moment is gone because Cassandra is hustling them out of the city until an arrow buries itself between the cobblestones in front of them.  

  
  
  
  


_“I do hope you know what you’re doing darling.” Madame Vivienne crossed her arms and peered at her. Her pretty, aristocratic features were cast in shadow and sunlight. “I know that you are - what’s the charming southern colloquialism they use here? Ah yes. A “tender-foot” for mages, but understand this, Herald. Fiona was the one who incited the rebellions directly after the terrorist attack in Kirkwall. Choose your words wisely, if you do not take me - which I also advise against - because she did not get voted as the Grand Enchanter without having some modicum of knowledge about how to play the Game.” Vivienne looked Evelyn up and down. “And while your field skills are commendable, my dear, I have noticed you do not yet understand how to take charge of a court.”_

_She patted Evelyn on the arm. “But such things come with time and practice, neither of which you have or can afford. Such is your lot.” She cocked her head at the rogue, “But we all have our crosses. Meet with Fiona, if you must, if only to find out what on earth she is planning, but do not count on her being sympathetic to the Inquisition’s cause.”_

_Evelyn declined, at that point in Madame Vivienne's speech, to tell her that it was rather she felt the Inquisition should be invested in their cause. The Madame already disapproved of her. She saw it in the Madame's face when she had happened to catch Evelyn and Cullen orbiting each other like guard dogs from feuding houses. It hadn't been Evelyn's finest moment, challenging Cullen in the quiet way hunters have always challenged templars._

_Evelyn can't not say anything incriminating so she settled on: "Yes, Madame Vivienne." She'll take Solas, he'll be able to make the mages at ease and she'll take Madame Vivienne since she was right. She has never been good at the Game and she doesn't know Fiona, not really._

Evelyn hates having to rely so heavily on someone. It isn't in her breeding, loathe as she is to admit that her ancestry has a heavy hand in her personality it is still undeniable, and it isn't in her training. But Blackwall had been right, Solas knows everything there is to know about everything. It prickles at the hound in her, something to put her nose to the ground for and investigate, but she isn't a mage and can't very well investigate the Fade. She needs Solas, as surely as she needs her daggers and flasks, because these waters aren't navigable for her otherwise. The mages, or rather Fiona, has already expressed her distrust in a templar heading the Inquisition even one as eccentric as Evelyn. She expected it, even before the war, but it still causes a twinge. She has no side she belongs to, not really, even if she already chose long ago. She chose Lysandir’s side when the war came to a head and she’s completely certain that none of the mages would have followed her if he hadn’t vouched for her personally.

 

Solas, he's not even from the Circle but he trusts her. He trusted her word when she swore vehemently that she would not let them take him to a Circle. He's a strange one. Hedge mages distrust Circles even more and hate templars with a passion that nearly outstrips most Circle mages. But he stays. To help, he says, as if it is his mess to clean up simply because he has knowledge and magic. She appreciates the sense of responsibility and has nothing against taking advantage of it; she knows her weaknesses and strengths and she knows she cannot do this alone.

 

Which is mostly why she feels the need to tell him ahead of time that Madame Vivienne will be joining. And The Iron Bull will be setting off with them as well. Blackwall, Varric and Sera have set off in search of the missing Wardens in the Hinterlands. Cassandra and Cullen have since poured more time into training since the influx of recruits have the Commander frowning ever more deeply at their obvious farm clothes or finer furs and leathers.

 

She hunts Solas down in the cabin near Adan’s, sitting on a chair with a heavy book she recognizes as part of Cullen’s collection from the Chantry library. She clears her throat unnecessarily. Solas’ ears had twitched upon her arrival and she had always had a difficult time sneaking up on elven targets to begin with. “I’d like you to come with me when I meet Grand Enchanter Fiona in Redcliffe - if it isn’t in your way.” She amends. She isn’t used to commands or barking them - that nonsense is for the knights.

 

Solas looks up at her with a small smile. “Of course. It would likely ease the tension, one should hope, if a mage is seen to be easily accepted in the Inquisition.”

 

Evelyn nods back with a smile that immediately melts away when she delivers the last of her message now that he accepted the mission. “I’m bringing Madame Vivienne with me as well. Fiona...knows her. And Madame Vivienne is a Circle mage, originally, which may help grease the negotiation.”

 

Solas closes his book and frowns at her slightly. His lip curls to show a rather impressive canine. "Ah." His distaste is obvious and it comforts Evelyn on some level to know that he trusts her enough to show her his distaste. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "I understand."

 

She shifts in place slightly, hands fluttering at her hips before falling away to cross over her torso. "Solas. How are we supposed to collect the mages?" When his face carefully blanks at her words, she pauses to consider why until he speaks -

 

"'Collect'?" He repeats.

 

Evelyn feels the heat of embarrassment crawl over her throat and hopes it doesn't show. "...that alone should be enough of an example as to why you and Vivienne should be there."

 

For a moment all Solas does is blink at her in what might be wonderment before he starts laughing and it sounds a little bitter, with the way he places a hand over his face.

__  
  
  
  


"Tevinter. Are. You. Shitting me?" Iron Bull growls behind her. To her credit, the Grand Enchantment doesn't even blink.

 

Evelyn stares at her, luckily not slack jawed, but she inwardly repeats Iron Bull's statement.  _What the fuck._

 

Vivienne simply sniffs. "Fiona my dear your dementia is showing."

 

"Why would you trade one form of slavery for another?" Solas snarls. "Why would you do such a thing? And to involve your own people." He sounds horrified.

 

Fiona frowns, "We had no choice. Templars were all around us and we had no other allies." She stares at Evelyn cautiously. "And it seems the Inquisition has them as well."

 

Evelyn’s brows furrow. Fiona had already met her, known what she was. So why -

 

From behind her, Iron Bull mutters quietly. "Horns up boss, something's wrong."

 

Evelyn shifts her weight to her left leg, moving her foot back casually and covering the movement by cocking her hip. He's right, of course. Nothing ever goes right.

 

Solas and Vivienne for the first time since they set off seem to be in agreement; they take turns harassing Fiona who is looking progressively more frustrated. It is, to the hunter in Evelyn, a terrifying work of art to behold. Iron Bull makes an approving noise.

 

"Look at them go. Makes your job a bit easier, eh boss?" He shoulders her lightly but it's still enough to make her rock on her feet.

 

Quietly, "We're being watched." Iron Bull snorts. She takes it as an agreement. Silently she moves closer to Solas while Iron Bull rolls his shoulders and stands firmly behind Vivienne.

 

"The cook. A plant." He murmurs.

 

Solas is in good form, his ears are flat against his head and his voice is rising. Madame Vivienne clucks her tongue and checks her nails dismissively. Fiona, tiny as she is, manages to maintain her ground before the two of them, insisting it was their last resort.

 

"Two mages near the door. They aren't Fiona's." Evelyn says back. Then blinks for a moment. Are they really doing this right now? Making a game of "guess who the deadly spy/assassin is"?

 

"And the elf in the corner with the dirty rag? That belt isn't Ferelden." Iron Bull sounds like he already knows the answer. It isn't enough to make her smile, but it makes her think of Maxillian's tests. Maxillian, a burnt, frozen corpse somewhere in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Maxillian who had treated mages, elves, templars who didn't believe in the Maker, like people. A decent man. A dead man. 

 

"Not Tevinter. He's no mage and not nearly terrified enough to be a servant. He has backbone." His belt is a thick leather, tunic is soft spun wool and his shoes are - _pointed_. Her mouth twists before she can contain it. "Orlesian."

 

"Mm-hm." A gusty sigh. "Yeah. So. Then that happened. Wonder what the hell they're doing here?"

 

“It’s Orlais. Means nothing good, whatever they want.” She grumbles.

 

Abruptly Solas swings around to look at her. His fury has made his lips twist and ears flat. “The magister wishes to speak with you.”

 

Evelyn forces herself not to stiffen. A callback from her time in the Order; all of the warnings and instructions against magisters and their brand of magic. Dangerous, unpredictable and always well-learned on their craft. Quietly, she hisses, “Well shit.”

 

Solas’ mouth pinches and he nods once. “At the very least, he’s a Tevinter magister.” And his eyes narrow, his mouth turns up into something like a snarl and a grin. “If he does anything untoward, you being a functioning templar would be a very nasty surprise.”

 

That statement, beyond anything else, tells Evelyn exactly how upset Solas is with the situation.

 

She sees the magister, finely clothed, walk amongst the other mages with the swagger of the privileged and powerful. Behind him is a younger man who shares his features - his son perhaps.

 

Fiona hurries to meet him, looking nearly contrite, but the magister’s eyes are only for her. Evelyn meets his gaze levelly and plays the charming, clueless, highborn part she would have been a proper natural at if she had never been given to the Order. He is hiding something. The mages are on leashes, bound to Tevinter, and they are on Ferelden soil. There is nothing about this situation that sits even remotely well with her.

  
  


_“Fascinating. How does that work exactly?” The mage cocked his head at her and then laughed, “Oh goodness, you don’t even know do you? You just shake your fist and boom, rift closes.”_

_Evelyn found herself smiling a little at him. Mages like him would never have been found in Ostwick Circle. His cocky manner as he paced and explained himself, would have been beaten out of him. Some knight would have found him too mouthy, too opinionated. They would have made him hurt, and if that didn't stop him, they would have branded him and used the excuse of piling on microaggressions and bloating the reasons. Lysandir, a Dalish mage with a sly manner, had barely survived Ostwick Circle. But Lysandir was Dalish and knew what subtlety was. This man clearly has never heard of such a thing._

_“He is using time magic and it’s unraveling the world.” He finished dramatically._

_“Much as I applaud your taste for theatrics, darling, if you could perhaps give us a bit more evidence than ‘oh time magic, believe me’, it would be sorely appreciated.” Vivienne snapped._

_Iron Bull grumbled. “He’s pretty. Never. Trust. Pretty people.”_

_Solas made a noise of disgust, at the Tevinter mage or their companions, and looked at Evelyn directly. “We have nothing to lose by at least investigating this. Magister Alexius has already seemed to have taken over Redcliffe. We must at least hear him out.”_

_“Well if that has all of you out of sorts, just wait until we tell you about the Venatori.” Felix came up, panting as if he had been running for a time._

_Evelyn moved near him. She remembered his believable act of falling over earlier. But he had looked truly sick, he still does. “Venatori?” She nearly wished she didn’t ask when he sent her a sympathetic glance._

_“A cult, Tevinter in origin, and they’re obsessed with you.”_

_She felt her face go carefully blank. “Oh. Good.”_

_Dorian smiled, surprisingly positive despite the situation. “Oh I like you. I can see why they would be obsessed with you, such eloquence!”_

_It was enough to make a real smile curl at her lips. He reminded her of an absurdly flamboyant Lysandir. It was enough to make her chest warm with an ache she hadn’t felt in a while._

_Solas injected one last time. “Time magic. You were explaining it before. Do you have any more detail?”_

_Dorian looked serious again. “From the beginning then, yes?”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> struggled a bit with this one, and combing through and editing with the previous chapters. then gdocs decided 'oh what's this? written stuff? let's just dump it. it'll be fine.' so i had to rewrite it. bummer. thank you for the reviews thus far, and hope you enjoyed this installment!


	5. redcliffe redux pt1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All men die, Evelyn. There’s no choice in that. You can at least choose how they die. There is kindness in death.”

_“Blood of the Elder One!”_

_“How’d they get in?”_

_Evelyn staggered from the aftermath of the spell. Her legs didn’t cooperate and the Venatori agent closest to her hefted his sword to bring it down in a slash across her body - but the familiar feeling of invisible armor locking around her came and then the agent had a fireball flung in his face. He screamed and the fire sizzled, popping._

_The other agent bellowed and flung himself at Dorian - Evelyn gathered herself and flung a knife from beneath her cloak at his throat. She missed and caught him beneath his ear. The agent choked and coughed up blood. She flung a second knife and it landed in his eye. He shuddered and fell limply in the ankle-high water._

_“Hm. Interesting. Seems Alexius got all flustered when you trapped him - I don’t think this was his intention with the amulet at all.” Dorian leaned down and fished a jail key from the body of the Venatori at his feet._

_Evelyn eyed him. “What did he mean to do with it?” Honestly, how many things could one do with a time amulet besides using it for its seemingly only purpose?_

_“I believe he meant to remove you from time altogether.” Solas murmured. “He would rather have you completely out of the equation - to make it as if you were not there at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Then this Elder One would have had his plans come to fruition.”_

_Dorian turned to smile at her expression. “Now, now. Let’s just get out of this wretched place, find him, get the amulet and set things straight. And don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”_

 

It is everywhere, in this time they are stuck in. Red lyrium juts from the walls and floors, creeping along like vines on a trellis. It isn’t only red lyrium that runs rampant like some terrible weed in this place; there’s bones littering hallways, piles of clothes lying forgotten and musty. The hold has become a tomb.

 

“Maker - why is it coming out of the walls?” Dorian hisses behind her. Evelyn can barely bring herself to look at any of it, much less explain why it is difficult for her to do so. It’s a miracle she can even hear him over the soft cacophony around her, rising and falling like a tide, overlapping like so many soft whispers at once.

 

It’s awful here. The songs, the voices, whatever it - they - are, it’s louder here. Everywhere. All around. Inescapable. And - save her - there is a part of her that only wants to continue listening to it if only to understand.

 

Solas answers Dorian in her place. “Are you certain you want to know?”

 

He lays a hand on her shoulder when she lowers herself to her knees to pick the lock of a lower door. In a hushed tone so Dorian can’t hear him, Solas asks: “Are you well?”

 

Her hands fumble the lock and the pick breaks. “Do I look alright Solas?” She snaps back in hoarse voice. She brings out another pick from her pouch and sets to work again.

 

She hears a patient sigh. “I was only - nevermind. I should have known it would be difficult.” She feels a soft pulse of mana. A healing spell - but it’s strange. Different. Her hands don’t tremble as badly. Breathing comes to her easier. “Relief, albeit temporary. Still.” She stops her lockpicking to look over at Solas. He looks at her kindly. “I believe even a small relief is worthwhile.”

 

Evelyn smiles hesitantly and recalls Cassandra’s words. “We take our victories where we can.” She says, not without some sense of bitterness.

 

Solas steps back and the door finally swings open. There is more red lyrium here. It pulses and sighs and sings and whispers and it’s very much alive. Diseased and tainted beyond repair of its normal variety but infinitely more alive - aware.

 

She reaches for the calm Solas pushed into her, but it feels overwhelmed. She grits her teeth and moves forward. There is nothing for it. If she cannot find calm and tranquility here in the face of the madness around her then she will reach for anger or stoicism if she can.

 

“Oh Maker.” Dorian whispers.

 

Evelyn echoes the spirit of the sentiment. Red lyrium juts from a corpse near the door. It had grown from the floor to push up through the body. Decaying lengths of slippery rope-like intestines lie spilled around the body. Solas inhales swiftly.

 

“Hello? Is-is someone there?” A voice, female and Orlesian, asks.

 

Evelyn moves around the body and follows the sound of the voice.

 

Grand Enchanter Fiona leans against a wall in a cell and rasps every breath she takes. Evelyn freezes.

 

It grows from the mage’s body, blooming out and around her. It pulses with vibrant life and the song it sings is different from that which grows from the ground - it sounds as if there is a subharmonic with a primary voice. It isn’t the same sound as the lyrium she has previously heard; this song hums with the sound of waterphones instead of lutes and violins. It repulses her, makes her skin crawl but part of her repulsion is a growing self-disgust; the sounds tickle at her ears and there’s a responding giddiness to the beat of her heart like a summer-sweet affection.

 

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Disbelief colors her voice and she creeps closer to the woman hesitantly.

 

The elf looks to her and barely seems to find enough energy to even look as surprised as she seems to be. “I saw you all die,” she rasps, inhaling as if it hurts.

 

Dorian shakes himself and approaches. “We didn’t die - Alexius tried to send us, well, away and clearly it happened but I don’t think he meant for us to come back. But it’s very important now, what year is it?”

 

Fiona shakes as she takes in a long breath to speak. “9:42 Dragon.”

 

“We’ve missed a whole year.” Dorian curses in Tevene, hand to his mouth and clearly trying to calculate.

 

Evelyn stares hard at Fiona. Anger builds in her slowly, the beginning embers of a wildfire. She feels as if she’s swallowed a hot coal and it’s there, nestling in her chest. “And you thought Tevinter would save you.” It spills out before she can help herself. “You thought Alexius and his Elder One - they leashed you and bound you to them and now - now all I see is death all around this place. And you brought your people to him - all I’ve seen since we’ve been here are bones, bodies of mages that don’t belong to Tevinter - your people, they’re all over this place.” She’s leaning towards Fiona now, breathing in the smell of slow death and the taste of red lyrium, something like blood and wine and a cloying sweetness like rotting fruit, lingers at her tongue. “Why?”

 

Fiona gasps in a breath and her face contorts into anguish. “We were so afraid, Herald.”

 

“Of the templars?” Dorian asks from behind Evelyn. He and Solas had remained silent throughout Evelyn’s sudden outburst of temper.

 

Fiona nods and then looks to Evelyn with a sad, nearly apologetic look. “And of you.”

 

And the bed of coals abruptly becomes ice cold in her chest. The confession is enough to bring Evelyn to flinch and move away.

 

“You....you must find the others. And Alexius is in the throne room. You must end this.” The mage lays her head against a tall stalk of lyrium in front of her. All of her energy seems to have left her.

 

“We must hurry and find the others and undo this abomination.” Solas hisses vehemently. Evelyn nods and drags her eyes from the Grand Enchanter. They jog up the stairs and find a different corridor, the one Fiona had pointed at.

 

Evelyn looks over at Dorian and wrestles with herself over a decision before speaking. “Dorian.” He glances over at her briefly. “We will have to kill Alexius.”

 

His lips thin and he allows her to overtake him, to take point as they run to another decayed door. “I understand.”

 

She didn’t tell him to get his understanding. It would have happened regardless if he’d sworn up and down that Alexius didn’t need to die. She would have agreed, and then upon meeting the magister and getting the amulet, she would have driven a dagger in his throat to slice him to his navel. But, Dorian is sticking his neck out trying to help people who are not his countrymen. He deserved the warning. With his, not necessarily agreement, but something close enough, she is able to get insight into Dorian. He accepts tragedy like second nature, and perhaps it is.

 

She cannot say she has never had tragedy, but she is a templar who was the watchdog for the mages. She knows what tragic means. She knows what suffering is. She can only claim that she knows she cannot belong to herself within the Inquisition, but she has never really belonged to herself. Not a tragedy; only a fact. For Dorian, she would allow Alexius to live.

 

But she can’t. The Inquisition requires her hand and her blades - not her witty repartee or the tender places of her heart. Alexius would have to die, and for that, she was apologetic. She knows what it means to lose a man who helped shape your whole world. Mentor, Dorian called him. She once called her uncle ‘sir’ to avoid suspicion. There are all sorts of names for the people close to hearts that must be guarded.

 

But she has always had an understanding in her way of life. All men died. Some just had to be killed.

 

Another lock picked, a winding stairway down and they find Vivienne with black circles around her eyes, her mage robes dirty with grime and a red shine in her eyes. She imperiously enquires what they are and what they want and then demands to be let out of the cell for vengeance.

 

Evelyn frowns at her. “It’s - is that -”

 

“Still as tongue-tied as ever. Yes, dear. It’s inside me too, as I’m assuming you’ve seen our dear, dear friend Fiona?” Vivienne clenches a fist tightly. “Now. I believe The Iron Bull is down this hall, I imagine he’s quite anxious to be let out. Let’s undo this future and kill Alexius for daring to try to create his own.”

 

They find Iron Bull, singing a tavern song, and he doesn’t immediately believe them until Vivienne interjects and demands he stop his nonsense, saying that they have magisters to kill and gods to overthrow.

 

He blinks and looks over at Evelyn. “You have a lot of weird shit happen to you, you know that?” His eye squints at her and she feels herself steel against him. Ben-Hassrath. He can see right through her. He knows she can hear it. He cocks his head at her, tipping a horn in her direction. “You doing alright boss?”

 

“Just - this place.” She gestures around her uselessly. “It’s terrible.”

 

“Yeah. Invasions. Demon army. Giant fucking dragon.” He shrugs and cracks his neck. “But other than that, you’re fine.”

 

He says it like he’s expecting her to just start gnawing on the crystals around them.

 

Lips thinning, she nods once and turns away when Madame Vivienne begins answering Dorian’s questions. Solas looks on with a carefully blank face. She sympathizes. This world is unnerving him nearly as much as the red lyrium disturbs her. 

 

“We ought to find Leliana. She would be of use to helping kill this magister.” Madame Vivienne twirls a scavenged staff between her fingers. She cuts a nearly vicious look at Evelyn. “I want you to pay close attention to this world, darling. I want you to remember it. And bring back everything you feel and see here with you once we right this wrong.” She turns away, with Iron Bull in the lead before she tosses one last thing over her shoulder. “There is no better teacher, or pain, than regret.”

 

Solas makes an aborted noise behind her, either agreement, or sympathy but it dies in his throat.

 

Evelyn brings up the rear. Whatever comes next, she has to remember that this is not her world. This will not be their future. It can't be allowed. 

 

_“Papa says I’m going to be a templar.” Her legs swung back and forth. Her hair was coiled in a tight bun as she watched the tall bearded man swing an axe to chop wood. “Are all the mages I’m going to be killing bad people?”_

_Her uncle stopped mid swing to look at her with wide eyes. “What makes you think you’ll be killing them?”_

_She pursed her lips. “That’s what templars do. Kill bad people. And mages are bad. The Maker said so. And mother.”_

_He shook his head. “No, no, no pup. Mages don’t just - you don’t just kill mages, or anyone. You’ll be a templar but the oaths are to protect people. People who would do the innocent wrong.” He reached out and grabbed her chin to force her to look at him. “You hear me? You’re a good girl. Be a good templar.”_

_“Then why do we lock them up? Did they do something wrong? Why do templars hunt them? Why do they take them?” Her rapid fire questions made her uncle slump. “Why can’t I be a Warden like you?”_

_“No. That - the Warden life is not for you, pup. You -” he scrubbed at his face and released her chin. “I can’t say why we lock them up but they aren’t evil. They’re not. Do you remember when you couldn’t play with Thranil anymore because your mother found out?”_

_Evelyn nodded. “She said noble children don’t play with elves. Or go to the alienage.”_

_Her uncle sighed. “It’s like that. The mages don’t deserve it. Neither did Thranil. It's just that people don't understand them. They're afraid of them, so they put them somewhere else."_

_“But what if I’m told to? What if they make me hurt someone?”_

_ His gray eyes seemed to age, and the wrinkles around them worsened. “All men die, Evelyn. There’s no choice in that. You can at least choose how they die. There is kindness in death.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna lie, lost all inspiration for a bit and then redcliffe became huge so i broke into separate pieces. this is gonna be a long trip. lots of revelations for everyone involved. esp since i made it AU


	6. redcliffe redux pt2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If she cannot be made to reason - well. Evelyn has committed worse sins for lesser causes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay it's only been forever. hopefully it's an enjoyable update and i'll be editing it a bit after christmas. happy holidays!

_ “Typical Tevinter.” Madame Vivienne muttered as she hid behind a pillar when agents spilled forth from a previously barred door. “Taking over the world, slaves everywhere, Orlais falling into complete chaos, degenerates venerating a false god while Ferelden is presumably left chasing its own tail.” _

_ “Oh yes. We’re all quite evil and malicious in everything we do - why even our outfits are made from despair and the tears of little children.” Dorian called out from behind his place.  _

_ “It would make sense considering that Tevinter makes use of slaves.” Solas hissed.  _

_ “Oh-ho-hooo. I see how it is. You act all chummy with me on the subject of unknown magics but then murderous, fanatical countrymen of mine appear and suddenly I’m an evil magister. You southerners. I’m not a magister, but I am a mage from Tevinter.”  _

_ Evelyn tried to keep the scrunched look from her face but it was nigh impossible. She watched the mages take down agent after agent all while going about snapping at each other in a circle. Solas and Vivienne had turned on each other and now Dorian was taking potshots at both of them. A guardsman came charging at them but Solas flung a half-minded stonefist at him, sending him careening into a fire glyph Dorian had cast.  _

_ Beside her, Iron Bull stood restlessly. The Venatori agent was now screaming as fire ate into his armor. “And you people wonder why we keep our mages bound,” he muttered.  _

_ Evelyn coughed. She smelled flesh burning. “How are they still arguing?”  _

_ Iron Bull casually hefted his greatsword and cut down a man who had come up behind them. “No idea. You do know you won’t be able to take all three in a group with us once that Tevinter joins up right? Enemy would hear you coming miles away.”  _

_ The rogue glanced at Iron Bull momentarily. “What makes you think I’d let him join?”  _

_ “Why not? You guys seem pretty chummy, and he seems alright. Without him, let’s face it, those mages would be up shit creek without a paddle, and us blind in the dark until whatever happened, happened.” Iron Bull said.  _

_ Because there seemed to be enemies around every corner - Dorian’s own mentor and patron who he’d known his entire life, the one man he had once respected was now a puppet for the Venatori and whatever they may have stood for. Her cousins followed Lord Seeker Lucius, throwing the gauntlet down before her. The Chantry had called them heretics and demanded the rest of the world follow suit. Because this was their world if she should fail or fall.  _

_ “I just thought we were exclusive, is all.” She said instead.  _

_ Iron Bull chuffed. “Sure boss. Sure.”  _

_ Frost sighed from Vivienne’s staff and Solas unleashed an arc of lightning that sought out everyone near him.  _

_ “So. All the lyrium everywhere. I noticed it has a not-so-great effect on templars. What about you? You use, right?”  _

_ Evelyn looked up at Iron Bull. She sucked at her lower lip. “The powder. I use the powder. A bit. Usually at breakfast. I don’t - I don’t drink it anymore. Or use the potion the Chantry gives us.”  _

_ “Powder. That’s...hm. Archaic? I think that’s the word I wanted. Yeah, archaic. Didn’t the Chantry stop using the powder oh...nearly two hundred years ago when an alchemist discovered that there was a potion that made templar abilities about three times as powerful?”  _

_ “How -” Evelyn cut herself off immediately when Iron Bull gave her a small smirk. “Right. Ben-Hassrath. Anyway, yes. The powder is still available, usually for the older templars that can’t do their duties anymore. It’s thought of as a supplement since they aren’t given their normal dosage once they retire. They still use the potion, but it’s diluted.” Evelyn shrugged.  _

_ Solas swung his staff and caught a man in the chest, pushing him back with surprising strength and forcing him to the ground, freezing him with the point of his staff.  _

_ She frowned slightly. She had never seen a mage do that - but she had little experience with hedge mages. Still. It seemed less mage-like and more like something she’d see in swordplay. Perhaps he was something of a knight-enchanter.  _

_ “So why do you use the powder?”  _

_ “Why do I what?”  _

_ “The powder, boss. Why do you use the powder?” Iron Bull crossed his arms and stared down at her with his one eye.  _

_ She scratched the back of her neck. “Maybe we should help the others.” It was a weak excuse. The mages were still flinging elements across the battlefield, correcting one another and snarking. She or Iron Bull would break whatever strange flow they had developed.  _

_ He raised an eyebrow at her. Evelyn felt he was staring into her bones to see what her marrow was made of. She felt him finding her wanting. Her reason for choosing powder was not necessarily scandalous, as uncommon as it was, but - still. It had the potential to lay her bare.  _

_ But this was not the real Iron Bull, and she had no doubt that this would come up later in conversation anyway. She could treat this as practice.  _

_ “Once, we were sent out to hunt a man named Rodger. He was a nobleman’s son who thought joining the templars would be grand and bring their house prestige. He was right. And an idiot. Lyrium does things to a non-magical body. Templars get their abilities from it, augmenting whatever is there. Not everyone can be a templar. People do flunk out, but typically are placed within the army or with guardsmen. You'll hear recruiters say that only the Maker’s chosen are templars because faith gives them their abilities. It isn't that - whatever makes a templar can be passed on genetically. It's why the Trevelyans are so prevalent. We’ve seem to have always been able to...breed templars.  _

_ But for a templar, lyrium is addictive, it doesn't make us...ill the way it does non-mages. Punishment within templar ranks is going into a dry spell where the templar has their lyrium supply halted for a time. Muscle pain, fatigue, dizziness, nausea.” She cleared her throat awkwardly around the same time Vivienne called Solas’ casting form vulgar.  _

_ “Anyway. We were sent out to bring him in. Rodger had stolen lyrium from the Order. He’d left after declaring that the Chantry was full of hypocrites. We never found out why he’d run from the Order in the first place. We assumed he just couldn’t handle the lyrium properly and became an addict, but the signs should’ve showed up months ago in training. When we saw him...he’d lost so much weight you could see his ribs. He hadn’t bathed. He kept sobbing. It was a return to the Order and then he was to be released to the Court. He couldn’t be a templar anymore. Rodger flung himself off of a cliff when my commander gave him his sentence.” She looked down at her hands. “I lost my taste for lyrium, informed my commander that I was switching to the powder, citing that the potion was too strong for me and was giving me migraines. Not unheard of, but it was rare enough to cause speculation. My being a Trevelyan stopped him from questioning me much. Seeing Rodger just made me put two and two together.The hold it would have over me even if I left the Order. I just. I just wanted a choice.”  _

_ “And the powder is less addictive, making quitting it easier, so I hear.” Iron Bull continued for her. “But that doesn’t answer my other question. This red lyrium crap. Is it doing anything to you?”  _

_ Sounds, songs, voices, whispers -  _

_ From everything she had read about it - what the Knight-Commander had become, turned into. That was what she can feel, can hear. She hadn’t stopped wondering when the Knight-Commander resisted the siren’s call and when she had listened and answered it. She’d read that the Knight-Commander had believed the Maker was speaking to her.  _

_ It would be a relief to tell someone exactly what it did to her. What she could hear, smell, taste. What it made her feel. _

_ This wasn’t the Iron Bull of her world. If she told him, it wouldn’t affect anything at all but at least it would be an ear to listen to her. But she prefered to keep her secrets all the same. “From what Varric's told me, I wouldn't want to be around it, and Knight-Commander Meredith is more than enough of a cautionary tale.”  _

_ He gave her an appraising look. “Look. We've all got secrets boss, so sure. Keep yours. So long as you're sure it won't affect the Inquisition and what we're all doing. So, if the lyrium is gonna mess you up like Meredith, you may want to let us know beforehand.” And Iron Bull said nothing more on the matter. _

 

 

 

Leliana rasps in her breaths as she shortly answers Evelyn. “And mages wonder why people fear them.” She looks directly at Dorian and Solas when she speaks before turning to face Evelyn. “The templars do not have pure hands in this either. There is a place where they did their experiments. Lord Seeker Lucius secreted them away in a tower and infected them with red lyrium after your encounter in Val Royeaux.” 

Evelyn feels her spine stiffen. “All of them?” 

Leliana tilts her chin up to appraise her, the aged lines of her face impossible to read. “Those that followed. And those that they found.” And after a moment, “Many templars from your family followed the Lord Seeker.”

Dorian hisses out a soft Tevene curse from behind Evelyn. “Could you possibly have worded that in a far less scarring manner?”

“She needs to know. She needs to learn whatever she can from this future.” 

“True. However harsh this world is, you all must take heed.” Vivienne cuts in imperiously. 

Evelyn finds herself unable to speak. She swallows to try again. Her mouth is a desert and everything within her is sand.  “You think they're doing the same now.” 

“I know they are. It has already happened here.” 

She had been aware that this would be a possible outcome since Val Royeaux. She is ever more aware of the possibility, now more than likely a reality in her own time. “Then we have already chosen our side in this war.” 

Leliana and Vivienne give her small looks near approval. 

A hand comes, almost hesitantly, to rest on her shoulder and long fingers squeeze gently. “We must hurry and correct this, there is still time.” 

Evelyn doesn’t respond immediately. If it comes to war, to a future that may have parallels with this one, she will do what she believes is best. Perhaps not right, never right, but rarely is war ever so clear cut. “Yes. I'll fix it, in our time. Can't let it fester.” Her words are stilted and wooden in her mouth, clumsy as they often are, and it's like she can taste splinters on her tongue. 

Solas gives her a strange look, one she has never seen on him before. His brow is wrinkled and his mouth forms a small frown drawn in tightly. His fingers tighten for a moment on her shoulder. It is as if he sees the ugly frightened thoughts in her, swirling in a bubbling pot. The feeling that is still formless within her, a sense of dread reaching a crescendo and making itself into a living, real creature. Evelyn looks away from him and slides from his grip. She doesn't like the idea of him seeing the shapeless feeling in her forming, building itself. Solas sees too much as it is. 

“We should keep moving. We have to find Alexius and his damn amulet.” Her voice comes out throaty and thicker than she means for it to. Leliana stands in the front with her bow drawn at her side. 

“The magister knows someone will be coming for him.” Leliana’s tone is a snarl. “Prepare to fight our way to him, and through all of his countermeasures.”

Evelyn remains near Leliana’s shoulder, unconsciously drawing up from typical templar formations. “You came to Redcliffe to gain the mages.” The spy master doesn't phrase it as a question. “Do you believe, even after what you have seen here, that is the wisest course of action?”

Evelyn glances at her out of the corner of her eye and palms her daggers. “You did, at one time.”

“Yes. I did. Before Fiona gave the magister an army of mages.” There is a coldness to her voice. “Now all I wish is to kill Alexius and return you back to the proper time.” And she lowers her voice slightly. “You may have to kill Fiona and wrest control from her.”

Evelyn's eyebrows climb. “No one will expect a templar hunter to kill the supposed leader of the mage rebellion.” She doesn't mean for the sarcasm to leak through but this doesn’t seem like the sort of decision Leliana would have made. Of course, she barely knows the woman. And she should’ve known better; Lady Nightingale is infamous among anyone who calls themselves a rogue. 

Leliana snorts. “There is nothing delicate about war. But if she continues to support Alexius and Tevinter in any way if, and after, you manage to kill Alexius, then you must give the mages a choice. You cannot allow this world to become your future.”

Evelyn nods. “I know.” And she is genuinely sorry for it. She knows, if it comes down to it, she will kill Fiona and spin it as if the Venatori had done it to gain complete control over the southern mages. If she cannot be made to reason - well. Evelyn has committed worse sins for lesser causes. 

Leliana seems to have heard something in her tone because she doesn't continue on with the conversation other than a final: “Know it well.”

 

 

 

The world here is swathed in reds and greens, the color of blood and infection. It is as if the world around them is an open wound and portrays it as such. 

Solas gently taps a fingernail against a pillar of lyrium as they pass it. It is a future, not the future thankfully, but the fact remains that it is a possibility. He, of all of them, is more than aware of the consequences of  _ possibilities _ . It is truly fortuitous that they are here, able to see what ruin could lie ahead should they falter.

Fortunate as it is to glimpse what hurdles they may encounter, secrets beyond the curtain they are unable to see, it is still tragic. And horrific. The cost of failure is all around them, dark and wretched.

He fears, even as he had comforted Evelyn, that the templars may be lost to them. They are soldiers led astray by a holy doctrine they are unable to see beyond. He had little pity or understanding for them, but small explanations and anecdotes from Evelyn's life as a templar have given him some modicum of understanding. And pity. 

Templars do not dream as other people do, strange even from a mage's perspective. They are aware in their dreams, more often than not, but there is a disturbing stillness and willful blindness to them. They walk in the Fade as the undead would walk the realm of the living and wakeful. He once visited the dream of an older templar, tried and true as any templar of strict discipline and belief, and he had been unable to stay for long. It had been something eerie, something that had felt like the long dead thaigs below. A yawning emptiness with only one soul left alive in it, dark and silent and dead but still aware and wandering. 

He had since strayed from visiting the dreams of templars. He wonders, as he waits behind Evelyn when she drops to a crouch to sneak into a room to surprise an enchanter, what Evelyn dreams of. If her dreams feel as empty and lost and silent as other templars, or if she will surprise him again. 

She slits the enchanter’s throat silently and catches him when he falls, bending with him slowly to muffle the noise of his body. Leliana lines up three arrows and waits for the other rogue to scale a ladder - less scaffold, tucking herself in a dark corner above one of the archers. Leliana lets the arrows fly,  _ thunk-thunk-thunk _ and three soldiers fall dead, arrows buried in their hearts. 

Evelyn drops from above the archer when he turns, arrow at the ready to let fly, and lands behind him. Her hands slid around his chin and gauntlet clad fingers grip the top of his head before she twists harshly. 

She stands over him and drops to scavenge arrows and healing potions. 

Solas peers up at a painting, old and worn, of the Hero of Ferelden. It is a wonder it is remaining on the castle walls at all. Dorian exclaims he found another lyrium shard. 

The Hero of Ferelden looks out over their group with slanted eyes, a harsh chin and long ears. The twisted vines of Elgar’nan cover his face.  _ Hero of Ferelden, the Warlord _ . He had indeed been both. Dreams from those who met him had confirmed that he had been a necessary evil at all times. Solas would like to meet him someday. Hopefully before this all comes to final head. He would be a powerful ally, already a heroic image for the elves of today. People would follow him. 

Solas wonders for a moment, looking at the scowling portrait of the Dalish man, what kind of hero Evelyn will be. What nickname will she be given. How history and those who write it will remember her. 

She has already made her mind up about Alexius. Her own family, Evelyn has admitted to him, is dangerous. She seems to see potential enemies in everyone and watches her allies from her periphery. Her hunter training, more than likely. Or perhaps it is simply in her nature to be paranoid of everything around her, guard up and her suspicious nature forcing her to watch everything around her nearly obsessively. 

They move on, Leliana giving directions while Evelyn skulks in the front. She hugs the shadows and steps lightly, and avoids touching or indeed being too close to the lyrium. 

It isn't pain that bothers her. He’d found that out as soon as he’d cast the first healing spell upon her. Until then he’d thought perhaps the lyrium caused her pain in some way, with the way she reacted to it. 

He and Dorian have consulted each other on it, he passed on what he knew of it to the other mage with Vivienne throwing in new information about it, the way it feels and what it does. They have all agreed they do not hear it, they feel it like fire, warm or hot, and the feeling that dances the line between power and despair. 

They do not feel or hear what the templars do. Evelyn has not told any of them of her own experiences. What they know of it comes from Varric's book and what the Champion had gleaned from Meredith. 

Solas knows that whatever Evelyn feels is not pain but he knows little else. That alone makes him uneasy; her unwillingness to share what it does. 

He frowns slightly at her back and she twitches, casting a quick glance at him over her shoulder, single visible eye wide. He meets her gaze calmly. Her eye squints and she faces forward again. 

The group is mostly silent as they press on, killing Venatori and collecting the remaining shards. Vivienne has declined further discussion and Iron Bull’s silence is near oppressive -the small conversation he had with Evelyn had gone unheard to the rest of the group but whatever was spoken has left the qunari quiet - and Dorian’s thoughts are likely on Alexius and the world around them. 

Much as Solas’ own thoughts. 

They pass a pile of robes and bones, robes worn by Orlesian Circle mages. Evelyn stoops and picks through the robes and tosses Dorian a lyrium potion. Her hands touch the exposed ribs briefly. 

“They're everywhere.” She murmurs mostly to herself. 

“They are the ones who stood against Alexius when he declared Redcliffe for himself. Most of them, anyway. Others were less suited for battle magic or healing and deemed useless, save for growing lyrium.” Vivienne says behind him. Her voice is equal parts full of rage and poise. “Alexius, or rather his puppeteer, the deformed creature he declares as his god, saw to it that they would be useful for something.” 

Evelyn stands and leaves the bones.

“I'm curious dear, what your plans are when you return. Do you believe the mages will welcome you with open arms? Look what they've done in meantime. Should you not look to the templars, you do come from their Order and may be able to convince them to turn from their madness. You risk losing the mages regardless.” Vivienne enquires. 

Solas narrows his eyes at her. “Because clearly the templars are bastions of reason and rationality.”

“They have not willingly become slaves to Tevinter.” 

“No, they only called for Rite of Annulment of mages, and have tried for years to justify systematic abuse of those within their  _ care _ , backed by the belief that the Maker sees magic as a curse.”

“And it is. It is dangerous Solas, wondrous as it may be, it is a flame one should know not to get comfortable with.”

“Enough.” Evelyn's voice cuts between them. Solas snaps back to look at her. “If it comes down to it, I've chosen my side.” Vivienne tuts her tongue and Solas nearly smiles. “But if worse comes to worse and Fiona will not listen to reason, I will have...limited options.”

“So you'll go to the templars if the mages are unable to be reasoned with?” Vivienne asks. 

“No. I'll have to forcefully recruit the mages into service with the Inquisition, separated from the Chantry formally.”

Solas feels a chill spread across his skin. 

The sentence hangs in the air until Dorian speaks up quietly. “And what does that entail exactly since I believe I felt the temperature in the immediate vicinity drop ten degrees.”

“It means she will kill Fiona for treason and conspiracy in the name of the Inquisition and declare herself as their  _ handler _ .” Solas manages to choke out. He thought she was better than this, more than someone wanting to hold a leash on someone. He misunderstood, perhaps, he has already shown several missteps in his assumptions, particularly with Varric. Surely, in this case, he misunderstood.

Evelyn stops and spins around to look at them. Her eyes are narrowed. “Not like the damn Circle. But. They'd have to be forcefully recruited by the Inquisition. You think Ferelden will let them sit here, after they willingly entered Tevinter’s service? And if Fiona, for whatever reason, doesn't think the Inquisition is better than Tevinter, we should let the problem fester?” 

“Dear you look stressed.” Vivienne murmurs quietly. 

She looks more than simply stressed. Her eyes look wide and there is something in her demeanor that is so unlike her, a normally still, quiet person. The person before him seems nearly - rabid. 

But he can’t let this simply pass. “Action is not always better than inaction. Should you do this the Inquisition will be seen as the new Circle, the very thing  _ you  _ stood against.”

Evelyn's jaw moves. “I'm more than aware, Solas. But inaction is exactly what happened in the Chantry. In the Circle.  _ In the Order _ . Probation would be the best I can do for them at this time. Templars aren't the only ones burning homes and pillaging out there. Is it fair? No. It isn't. But we don't always get to prove ourselves on our own terms. We do this, give them probation and the backing of the Inquisition if it is fruitful and they can prove they are willing to abide by rules that don't make them prisoners. That they aren't  _ asking  _ for anarchy.”  Evelyn meets their gazes steadily and Leliana gazes at them from behind her. Solas meets Evelyn's look evenly, jaw still clenched. “It's the best I can do for them. Fiona or no.”

“This isn't proving their humanity, their importance of being to the world,  _ Herald _ .” He nearly spits the word. 

She nods once, jerkily. “I know. But I would have done the same with the templars. Including myself. Still am.” She squares her shoulders. “We'll finish this once we're back in Haven, let's move out.” 

Solas forgets his bright anger for a moment.  _ But I would have done the same with the templars. Including myself. Still am _ . And he wonders. 


	7. redcliff redux: final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is startlingly easy to imagine a Trevelyan on their knees before her instead of Alexius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been getting a few questions (from where I crossposted the story) regarding Evelyn, Solas, and the evolution of the story and I figured I should address them here too. 
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> the first biggest question is: when are they gonna kiss/get dirty? 
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> tbh i have no idea. put it this way: Evelyn, in this story, is a templar - Solas does not like templars. I’ve always thought he pitied them in a distant, sort of disgusted manner, but he does not, on principle, like them. And even though Evelyn tried to be a good person, stand up for the little guy, treated them like people - she was still a templar, she did templar-like things and until the war began, she never left the Order. I’ll get more into why she never left, but so far, her (rather twisted tbh) sense of duty prevented her from doing so, spawned from her romanticised hero-worship of her uncle. 
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> two: Evelyn doesn’t seem quite normal or well-adjusted. 
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> part of that is the fact that recently she’s been near a lot of red lyrium and we all know what happens to templars around it. not cute. another part is her nature, which i hope i’m getting across properly. she was never molded for a leadership role; she hunted people and due to her conflicting nature regarding templars and mages, she never really made friends (the ones she did were, keep in mind, prisoners and she their indirect warden, hence her fixation on Lysandir who was her ward but never acted as though he was), never found comfort in the Chantry, she was suspicious of everyone around her (the people she was meant to trust to keep her alive/the only brethren she was allowed to openly have affection of some sort for), etc., - if the Inquisition had inquired more on her, let’s just say she probably never would have been in charge of anything. 
> 
> And BTW, if there’s questions please feel free to ask. I know I don’t update as frequently as I should but this is more of a side project while I work on my original work. And as always, thank you for the reviews and for bothering to read the story :D

_ It was getting worse. Her scalp prickled and crawled as if centipedes and other grotesque things had taken up residence in her hair. Her skin squirmed as if it didn’t belong to her. Her own body was becoming a foreign land even to her.  _

_ The voices, the whispers, the singing, had gotten steadily louder. The echoes she didn’t understand reverberated in her skull, bounced in her bones and hummed in her blood. To stop herself from twitching overmuch, she’d taken to striding ahead with her daggers in her hands, something to steady herself although from the side eye Leliana gave her, she wasn’t truly fooling anyone.  _

_ The group was quiet. Solas’s anger and disappointment was heavy on her shoulders, a burden she carried without reluctance or gladness. She didn’t begrudge Solas and Dorian for looking at her reproachfully. If Varric were here, no doubt he’d do the same.  _

_ Secretly she wished Lysandir were here. The blind elf knew the world in the same, but different, ways she did. All the crimes she committed to get her group safely away from the fighting, to keep her friends safe, because she believed she was doing the right thing, only Lysandir had known the extent she had gone to do so. The threats, the bribery, the thefts - the murders. The quiet, stealthy murders carried out in the dark of night with an equally suspiciously silent conscience, logic dictated that some people just needed to die. Her heart, burdened and drowning in all her mistakes and sins only continued to do what it had always done in her service to the Order; capsize.  _

_ An old commander had spotted them. She’d followed him, slit his throat. A Chantry sister who had been about to raise the alarm of escaped mages when she’d seen Rachel and the children on the outskirts of a market while Evelyn had been purchasing supplies, a fisherman, a bargeman, a soldier from Orlais, a scout from Ferelden.  _

_ Evelyn had enough of her own sins to catalogue; she knew them front to back, and she knew that crying over each one would do no good. Sorry as she was to lose Solas’s easy camaraderie, the possibility of Dorian’s good natured teasing, she could not afford to be kind or good. She could barely afford to be fair.  _

_ “ _ And I am your sword and shield, the torch when darkness closes around you and your sanctuary when evil may find you _.” Her uncle’s words echoed back to her. One of the few comforts she had in her own place in the world, the last vestige of what she was that truly belonged to herself.  _

_ Evelyn had never belonged to herself. This world, her course of actions hereafter would not change that. She had belonged to the Trevelyans, the Order, and now the Inquisition as a Herald - some whispered that she was the new Inquisitor but she had yet to find any evidence from Cassandra or Leliana that she would be - she had never only been “Evelyn”. It was Trevelyan, Hunter, or Herald.  _

_ It was strange. She had never met anyone aside from herself who was such a hollow person. Who was she, she thought grimly, besides a possible tyrant of mages on the rise. She didn’t think of herself as caging the mages, binding them in shackles and building towers around them to keep “decent folk” from them. But she suspected the Chantry in the beginning had not been so stifling. Tyranny, she thought, seemed to be a slow, creeping thing. She may already be going down such a path with her eyes wide open, yet unseeing.  _

_ Evelyn stood before the red lyrium door and watched Dorian slot each piece in the tiny alcoves. “Perfect.” He whispered and the stone moved. _

 

 

Alexius frowns, looking upon them and slowly came to rest on his knees. Evelyn does not feel pity, cannot meet Felix’s eyes, cannot look at Dorian or anyone else but Alexius. 

He who would trade the world for one person. Just a boy. Just the one. A terrible, horrific price the world would pay for a father. It is startlingly easy to imagine a Trevelyan on their knees before her instead of Alexius. 

“It's over, father.” Felix crouches before Alexius and the magister turns a sickly expression on him, as if caught between despair and resignation and desperation. 

“But  _ Felix.  _ You'll die.” His voice breaks. 

From her position she can see Felix give a brief expression with his lips, not quite a smile or frown. “Everyone dies.”

Alexius hangs his head. 

Evelyn does not see the brilliant mage Dorian described as his mentor and friend and potential father-figure. She does not see the cruel man who would help a monster burn the world with an awful, unknown power. She sees a man who does not care if he lives or dies because his son will die long before him. 

Inquisition soldiers move forward to drag the magister away. 

The king and queen of Ferelden march before them. Queen Anora looks at the Grand Enchanter, suddenly meek and apologetic. “You have outstayed your welcome in Ferelden. Where your people go is not of my concern.” Her voice is ice cold. 

Evelyn watches from the sidelines, quiet and waiting, while Fiona stammers apologies and begs for clemency. The other mages present look on in growing terror. If Evelyn did not feel so exhausted and concentrating on not ruining her image in the present, she would have smiled. They had nowhere else, now. 

“Grand Enchanter, we still need mages for our cause.” Evelyn cuts in before King Alistair is able to tell his soldiers to carry them off. 

Fiona narrows her eyes and stands straighter to peer at Evelyn. Despite herself, Evelyn feels as though she could slit this woman's throat now and be done with it. The price of pride. Offered clemency but still turned to Tevinter - a long time enemy of Ferelden - and then wrought chaos and misery upon her own people and allowed Tevinter to run Fereldens out of their homes. Evelyn can still feel the polished bones wrapped in moth eaten robes she had dragged her gauntlets across. “And what would be the terms of this arrangement?” She looks at Evelyn imperiously, no doubt spotting a simple templar in her place. 

“Better than what you had before. The Inquisition is better than that, yes?” Dorian cuts in, eyes narrow in return at the mage. Evelyn feels surprised. A Tevinter mage standing up for a templar. 

She meets Fiona’s gaze evenly. It's easier to think, now that she's away from the red lyrium, easier to sort through her own head but at the same time she finds herself, to her disgust, missing the space the voices and songs took up. Clarity burns like a brand. Her words from before feel as though she has scalded her throat and tongue. There is truth in those words, but she would not have put it so baldly. Another mistake in a long line of them. And she cannot even name the red lyrium for it all, not entirely. “The Inquisition would have the mages as allies in this. However, in light of the actions that the alliance with Tevinter would have brought, the alliance will be probationary. Another condition is this: you will not be the leader of the mages. Have your people choose representatives. You will be brought before the Inquisition for treason against Ferelden and conspiracy with the Tevinter cult known as the Venatori.” 

Fiona freezes. No one moves or seems to breathe. Evelyn watches her with a deadened expression. There is a nearly gleeful satisfaction in her. It is what the woman deserves. Tevinter would have brought death to Ferelden and the Inquisition. And Fiona would have provided them with a capable and convenient army in their borders. She would have to discuss the charges further with the Inquisition, but this maneuver could not go without consequence. 

“Well I'd say that that is an amazingly good deal, myself.” The wry voice of King Alistair causes her to look to her side. He raises his eyebrows at her and appraises her. He smiles slightly and she dips her head and lowers her eyes in response. 

“It seems we have no choice.” Fiona heaves a great sigh. “We accept your offer.” She pauses. “And I suppose I will be jailed until the charges are finalized?” 

The implied finish of  _ templar _ goes unsaid but every single person in that room hears it anyway. 

“No. You’ll be residing with the mages in the living area that will be extended to them. We will trust your word that you will not attempt to resist or flee.” Evelyn forces her gaze to weigh on the older woman heavily. 

Fiona, with another long sigh, gives her word. 

Quietly from her side, Solas murmurs, “Thank you.”

Perhaps he means for not killing Fiona. Or that she is not preparing to imprison the mages. Perhaps he means the fact that the mages having to work to prove their loyalty to a peaceful cause, aligned with all the people of Thedas, will mean opinions could change. Perhaps he means none of these things. Even so, the sincerity in his voice is a small comfort. A drink of water in the desert. 

Vivienne raises her brows at Evelyn, disapproving but not nearly as much as Evelyn thought she would be. Partially, Evelyn suspects, because she is planning to hold Fiona on trial for being an accomplice of treason against Ferelden. “Madame Vivienne, if you would please gather the mages…?” She doesn’t even need to finish the thought before the tall woman flicks her fingers at her. 

“Have Solas make something for you dear, you look a fright.” The cunning, dark gaze watches her as a crocodile watches from beneath still waters. She commands the attention of all the mages and gives Fiona a droll smile while doing so. The Iron Bull claps a heavy hand on her shoulder and shakes her slightly. 

“Not bad, boss.” He murmurs before he begins barking orders at the Inquisition soldiers in her place. 

Evelyn will need to deal with the king and queen. Solas lingers near and speaks quietly to King Alistair. “The Herald is weary. The battle was long and...dark. She was recently exposed to large quantities of red lyrium. If it would not be an issue, might we have an hour before she meets with Your Highness?” 

King Alistair, the legendary Grey Warden who was almost a templar, glances her way before he nods. “That’s fine. Fix her up and we’ll sort this bloody mess.” 

Queen Anora keeps up a nearly forced polite face. “We’ll have tea and prep for the discussion in meantime. Please make use of the Western quarters of the keep. The Arl will not mind.” 

“He’ll be glad to sleep in his own bed than a hay cot.” King Alistair mutters before he wanders off. The Queen rolls her eyes this time and follows the king. 

Evelyn doesn’t bother with the quarters. She merely seats herself on a long table and hangs her head between her knees when the mages and soldiers file outside. Solas disappears with a quick word. And Evelyn is left to herself for a time. 

The mages are secured. The templars not yet so. They may already be lost to her, judging by what future-Leliana had said. But maybe she can catch them before it is too late. She could reach out to her family, perhaps turn some of the templars from the path the Lord Seeker seemed to be leading them down. 

Perhaps the Venatori, or this Elder One Alexius had babbled about, had somehow used blood magic to bind them. What templar would willingly serve a false, twisted god with a cult of Tevinters bent on ruling the world? Apparently those who believed they would be forever at war with mages. 

A cup of steaming froth is presented to her inches from her face. It smells like grass and leaves. Her face twists. “Drink. It’ll help with the nausea and should perk you up some.” She takes the cup without looking at Solas and grimaces when she swallows the first hot mouthful. 

“It tastes like cud.” Evelyn mutters suspiciously, finally looking up at Solas. 

His face is carefully blank. “There is only a little.” 

Evelyn pauses in the middle of her third mouthful. She isn’t sure if Solas is joking or not. 

His eyes narrow in what she recognizes now as silent humor. She swallows. “I’ll need help with the king and queen. And the mages. And Fiona and the trial.” She says immediately. 

Solas seems to have been anticipating that and nods. “I suspect that is why The Iron Bull and Vivienne took charge of the others.” He sits beside her, leaning forward on the staff he looted from the future. “King Alistair seems more than amenable to handing over the mages without major incident, being that they did not _directly_ harm or threaten anyone. Queen Anora will want reparations for the damage done by the mages, and for allying themselves with Tevinter.” 

Evelyn groans. “Josephine is going to throw her number ledger at my face.” 

Solas hums. “Perhaps. Although there is no specific rule that reparations must come solely in the form of gold. We have more than enough mages, and among that number is a large quantity of chemists and healers.” 

Evelyn nods, sitting straighter and taking another swig from the wooden cup. “Good. We’ll try that then. And while we’re here, I’ll ask Leliana if she can’t find Lysandir and Rachel.” She swirls the dark green liquid in the cup. “After the negotiations.” She amends. 

Solas leans back and seems to be studying a Ferelden tapestry decorated with war mounts and mabari. “We will need to address the effects of red lyrium with Cassandra and Leliana, as well as Commander Cullen. There are other templars within the Inquisition besides you.” His voice is still even but there is an undercurrent of warning. 

Evelyn swallows the last mouthful and sets the cup on the long table, before standing to stretch. She doesn’t feel as though she wants to fall to the floor and sleep for an age anymore. “After the negotiations.” She insists. 

Solas nods. “After the negotiations.” He agrees and stands. Standing so close to him, Evelyn realizes she is taller than him by a few inches. “Now come, I’m certain Queen Anora has already drafted out a novel of what she expects from the Inquisition.” He moves to the door leading to the Northern wing reserved for guests of the arl.

Evelyn slips a gauntleted hand in the pouch at the side of her leg to touch the shard of lyrium residing there as if to make certain it is still there before she rewraps the pouch and hides it behind her armor and follows Solas to address the monarchy of Ferelden. 


End file.
